


Observations on interpersonal relationships, the importance of cleaning schedules and more.

by AnnaBolena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And a heaping spoonful of pining, Are they a couple or are they really good friends?, Banter, Big Friendship Feels, Getting Together, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, More banter, Multi, Nobody knows, Pre-relationship for some of the couples, Schrödinger's Courferre, communal living, not even them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23268298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “It’s time,” Courfeyrac announces with gravitas when Pontmercy doesn’t immediately inquire as to what has him feeling so down, “We’re being evicted.”Too startled to finish properly chewing his cereal, Marius Pontmercy spills some milk onto his pajamas. The beloved jeans couch is mercifully spared, narrowly averting a disaster of epic proportions. “I don’t even live here, really.”a.k.a. sometimes family is you, your best friend and his eight friends you move into the house your dead father left you with.
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 127
Kudos: 132





	1. One. “Backpfeifengesicht”

**Author's Note:**

> A few things: this has ten chapters, which lends itself to being a 9+1 fic in which each chapter focuses on one Ami and then Marius to round things off. that is, coincidentally, the plan. :)

One. “Backpfeifengesicht” (german)

Definition  : _a face that looks like it needs a slap._

* * *

**Monday, 7:43AM**

Essentially, the whole mess starts early one Monday morning in Paris. At Casa Pontmercy-Courfeyrac - which Pontmercy may have painted in blocky letters on the door, once upon a drunken night when he was still learning Spanish - the latter plops down next to the former on their wonderfully gaudy blue jeans couch, sighing heavily. 

“It’s time,” Courfeyrac announces with gravitas when Pontmercy doesn’t immediately inquire as to what has him feeling so down, “We’re being evicted.”

Too startled to finish properly chewing his cereal, Marius Pontmercy spills some milk onto his pajamas. The beloved jeans couch is mercifully spared, narrowly averting a disaster of epic proportions. “I don’t even live here, really.”

“Sure you don’t,” Courfeyrac pats his knee, careful to avoid the spreading milk stains. “That’s why you have a room and your name is on the doorbell.”

“I mean I never got the chance to pay you any of the rent--”

“Would you like to continue doing that?” Courfeyrac asks, cocking his head quizzically at Pontmercy, who splutters, at last making the highly advisable executive decision to put the precariously perched cereal bowl onto the table in front of them. 

“Wha-?”

“Would you like to continue not paying rent at our next apartment? Can I interest you in a permanent position as my platonic sugar-baby? It fills my chest with warmth, it brings me unimaginable delight, Pontmercy, you’ve no idea--”

Pontmercy seems surprised that Courfeyrac would still like to live with him, after knowing he is three months behind on rent, but he has long found Pontmercy to be a pleasant roommate. They’ve gotten along spectacularly well ever since they were randomly assigned to one another in their first semester. That interlude of harmonious university housing experienced a sudden interruption when, three semesters later, their dorm had to be torn down due to “contamination”. Many a soul asking after the specifics of the contaminant has been left wondering about it to this day. All the same, the dorms had been replaced by fancier things way outside poor Pontmercy’s price range. Courfeyrac had taken instant pity on his friend and invited him to take the couch at the new flat his parent’s money had secured, then told him he may as well use the “spare bedroom” that the place just so happened to have. Unfortunately, after three and a half months, their landlords then informed them of a rat infestation and laid the blame at their feet. Hence the imminent eviction. 

“Is there a next apartment?” Pontmercy’s question is posed hesitantly. Courfeyrac vaguely moves his hands around in the air between them. 

“It’s a work in progress, lets say.”

Pontmercy loudly exhales, sinking back deeper into the couch, hands covering his face. “It’s been one hell of a year, hasn’t it, Courfeyrac?” His voice is slightly muffled. 

Jovially, he reminds his friend: “Oh, my sweet Marius, it’s only March.” 

When this serves to bring Pontmercy’s face out from beneath his hands, Courfeyrac pats his freckled cheek fondly. “There, there. I’ll find something for my sugar-baby and I. Don’t you worry.”

“Please don’t call me your sugarbaby in front of your friends. Or, um, ever.” Pontmercy tells him as he slaps Courfeyrac’s hand away, cheeks ablaze, after turning to glance at the clock. “You’re going to be late for work.”

“I’m ready to go,” Courfeyrac gestures down his suit-clad body. “It’s you who is running late to your _thing_ , pajama man.”

Pontmercy pouts at him. “What, not better than ‘ _sugar baby’_?”

“Um, not really.” 

“Well, win some, lose some,” Courfeyrac shrugs, getting up. “I’m off - good luck with your _thing_. Try not to creep on any girls in the park afterwards.”

Two weeks ago they had found an invitation in their mailbox for Marius to attend to his father’s affairs. Up until that point, Marius had lived under the impression that his father had passed from the earth many years ago, as his grandfather only ever spoke of him as one does of the long deceased. Courfeyrac hasn’t been certain how he should best speak of the topic, so he’s been waiting for Marius to voice a need for conversation. Hasn’t happened, so far. It’s making both of them antsy, though. Never in his life has Courfeyrac wanted to deck old Gillenormand more. 

* * *

**Monday, 8:58AM**

Lamarque looks up reproachfully when, out of desperation, Courfeyrac resorts to closing the door with a smooth bump of his hip - arms full of documents and coffee permit nothing else. “Another heart wrenching case you’ve found for me?” 

“Among other things,” Courfeyrac agrees pleasantly. “Good morning to you too, sir. To be entirely correct, this case came to find you; I had precious little to do with it, this time. I also have your mail and a reminder from your wife to bring home the dry cleaning after work.”

“Hand it over,” Lamarque sighs, holding out a hand expectantly while keeping his eyes glued firmly onto the screen. Not needing to be told what is meant, Courfeyrac first gives him the coffee, then follows up with the case files, throws his wife’s hand-written note into the trash - having already texted Lamarque’s actual assistant to take care of the dry cleaning - and finally puts the mail in a pile Lamarque may or may not get to after lunch. Then, like every day, he has a seat across the table and waits to be addressed. It never takes very long. 

“What do you make of this?” Lamarque asks, having clearly only skimmed over the dossier. For someone that makes his own hours, Lamarque perpetually behaves as though he has no time to spare at all. It is odd that he then takes so much time out of his work hours to teach Courfeyrac, but he’s not complaining. Not in the slightest. 

“Seems like the right thing to do, taking it,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “You can win it no problem, builds a strong case of racial profiling and a resulting loss of opportunity for the defendant.”

“Yes, Courfeyrac, I got a similar impression,” Lamarque agrees, though his voice is guarded. “Clear cut case, but there is one glaring issue you neglected to take into account.”

“The defendant can’t afford you, yes, I’m aware,” Courfeyrac jumps in with a plan at the ready. “But I checked with finances--”

“Finances may have given you their okay,” Lamarque interrupts him with a dismissive wave. “The board, however, has placed an interdict on my taking anything pro bono until I’ve won them something big.”

His boss’ face does not let on to any anger. Instead, Courfeyrac sees only resignation. Courfeyrac’s own anger is not lost on Lamarque though, it would appear. “I appreciate your dedication, son, you know I do. Especially as I understand this sort of case is something very dear to your heart. Personal experience softened you up?”

Fucking pardon?

Courfeyrac is startled, but mercifully shows enough restraint to not merely blurt out what runs through his head at any given point. “You recall we have law school reunions from time to time to reminisce over our misplaced youthful idealism?” 

Courfeyrac does recall. That’s when he was first introduced to Lamarque, though he was too young to remember being paraded around on his father’s arm as the first prodigious son to be born in their little group of friends. What he decidedly cannot recall, however, is his father ever showing a hint of idealism. Perhaps it died along with his integrity when he threw his graduation cap in the air.

“Your father made a formidable host, this weekend.”

“Did he.” Courfeyrac comments, tonelessly. 

“When you sent me your application last summer to come work for me, I thought I would reject it purely because of that connection. I do not like to engage in nepotism when I can help it, you see. Call it my last shred of integrity.”

Courfeyrac decides to further hold his tongue. Lamarque seems far from finished, anyway. Who is he to get between a middle-aged man and his monologues? 

“Anyway, your resume was too impressive to ignore, when I snuck a glance at it despite my resolve not to. All those hours spent at the law clinic, all that free time given up-” Here Lamarque pauses to slam the ringing phone on his desk down decisively. From the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac can see the name of his wife light up and go dark again. “-We both know you were never under any obligation to do that. Your father’s good name would have guaranteed you all the internships you could ever want, he boasted as much. Frankly, I would have done the same if any of my children had shown interest in a law career, though I’m glad they didn’t. It’s how things are done around here, you’re as aware of that as I am, aren’t you, Félix?”

“I am, Sir,” Courfeyrac confirms. 

“It piqued my curiosity. You could have squandered your uni years and still made partner in your father’s firm by thirty.”

“I have no interest in pursuing patent law,” Courfeyrac responds evenly. 

“Yes, yes,” Lamarque nods, frowning. “No, it seems you have more of an interest in getting arrested.”

Ah. Now Courfeyrac realizes where they are heading. He can’t wait to come home and tell Pontmercy that they both had shitty days. “I got fired from my dream job” surely will serve to at least distract Pontmercy from his woes momentarily. 

“I didn’t realize my father spoke of such things, it seemed to me he always tried to forget it happened,” he settles on. Lamarque chuckles in a manner that never fails to infuriate Courfeyrac, all self-assured and confident, as though there is a joke in this situation lost on Courfeyrac. 

“Well, we’d retired to have a glass of whiskey.” Lamarque shrugs. “I have to confess it turned into more of a whiskey tasting. He keeps a very good stock.”

“Yes, Sir, he tries very hard to cultivate a good stock.” Amongst many other things, he also tries to cultivate a son to be proud of and is habitually disappointed. At least whiskey is compliant.

“Your father seemed pleased that you were doing well at my firm. That is, once he got over his surprise that you had applied here. He told me you were in Argentina, and I found myself in the rather awkward position of having to correct him.”

Courfeyrac draws his lips tight. “He did have other plans for me in mind. I did very politely inform the firm he chose for me that I regretfully had to decline their offer. They sent me a fruit basket and an invitation to work for them next year. I can’t imagine my father’s name suffering for it.”

“Yes,” Lamarque agrees, twinkle in his eye. “Apparently you were quite the troublemaker in school. Expelled from your fancy Midi private school in - 6th grade, was it?”

“Suspended, Sir,” Courfeyrac corrects miserably. What a shit morning. Again, Lamarque throws him that infuriating smile. It’s beginning to make Courfeyrac very antsy. 

“Right, right, my mistake. Well, I told him I thought you’d make a very fine lawyer someday.”

That is decidedly not where Courfeyrac thought this conversation would be headed. He knows he’s supposed to thank Lamarque now. He doesn’t, instead continues to frown at nothing in particular. 

“It wasn’t even a lie,” Lamarque continues, unbothered. “I admire the passion you bring to the table. It’s all very idealistic, takes me back to uni, that does. You’ve got heart, that’s for sure. You’re a hard worker, you have valuable insights. Not to mention you’ve been very reliable.”

Now, Courfeyrac is startled into thanking him. 

“But I wonder at your inability to rein yourself in. Thirteen arrests, Félix. That speaks of a terrible temper beneath your charming exterior. Must have cost your father a pretty penny to expunge all that from your record.”

“I like to think I got out on charming behavior alone,” Courfeyrac retorts, blandly, wisely not owning up to the most recent arrests. What use is it for his father to spend years fighting Courfeyrac on refusing to let him be the martyr his younger self had wished to become, only to tell the shameful deeds of his son to the boss that could make or break his career. Well, the answer is evident: Courfeyrac is to become a patent lawyer, after all, once Lamarque sends him on his way. His father thinks to leave him with no choice, inconsiderate of the fact that a cornered animal is more likely to snap at you than resign itself to a terrible fate. Some men refuse to learn from nature, their will is subject to imposal on all. 

“Perhaps you did,” Lamarque snorts. “Listen, son. I’m all for fighting the good fight, but it has to be done within the framework of our system. You gotta use the law to get the justice you seek.”

Courfeyrac strongly disagrees, but holds off on saying as much. Instead he nods, tightly. 

“Are we clear, then?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll get my stuff.”

“Then I have not been clear.” Lamarque shakes his head. “I’m not firing you, Félix.”

 _Could have fooled me, you scary old bastard_ , Courfeyrac thinks. “Now are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

Except as to _why_ he isn’t being fired, but contrary to his father’s belief, sometimes Courfeyrac knows when to just accept things for what they are. That is part of what makes him so charming.

“Good,” Lamarque’s voice turns infinitely more pleasant. “Tell you what, if you don’t get arrested while working for me, I might even rehire you this summer.”

“That’s a very kind offer, Sir,” Courfeyrac claims. Then he takes a deep breath, plucking the files out of Lamarque’s hands: “May I take this case to the Lafayettes?”

This startles a true laugh from Lamarque. “You just can’t quit, can you?”

“No, Sir,” Courfeyrac agrees. Lamarque laughs some more. “Very well, Félix Courfeyrac, defender of the helpless and wretched. You better have the research I asked you to do over the weekend with you when you come back! Go do what you must, but I doubt they’ll hear you out.”

“But now my hopes are up - you see, I’ve just been told I’m very charming,” Courfeyrac can’t resist needling before he shuts the door behind him.

  
  


* * *

**Monday, 1:22PM**

Paris is experiencing her first true sunny moments of the year when Courfeyrac gets off for his break. It’s tempting enough to take the scenic route on the way to a very late lunch, even if it makes him a few minutes later. This also affords him the time to get to cryptic messages, one from Pontmercy that reads _will has been read,_ one from Jehan instructing him to _deliver the gift without fail_ and an indecipherable string of question marks and exclamation points from Bossuet. Before he can get to the hundred or so messages in the group chat, his phone vibrates.

“Caller number three, you’re on the air,” he answers a call from what sounds like a very disgruntled friend. After two seconds of silence, he hears a huff. 

“You’ve used that one on me before,” says Enjolras from the other end. 

“It’s not exactly been an inspirational day, bud,” Courfeyrac defends. 

“You and me both,” Enjolras sounds tired. “I’m being thrown out of the States.”

“Ohoho, now this I have to hear. Do I need to be sitting down for this tale?”

“Keep walking, it's old hat,” Enjolras assures him, then admits, embarrassed: “I may have gotten arrested for protesting campus policy.”

Well, it had to happen at some point. They’re very handcuff-happy over the ocean. Combeferre can attest to that - last year he’d gotten cuffed for waiting outside Courfeyrac’s law firm in what was a rare casual outfit for him. It’s half a miracle Enjolras made it over three semesters abroad without such incidents, but then Enjolras is white. 

“Your favorite spiel,” Courfeyrac grins. “London boarding school incident all over again, huh? Just can’t help it? Funnily enough I was given a similar talk this morning.”

“Oh no,” he hears how Enjolras’ voice falls immediately. “Did Lamarque fire you?”

“Not so bad as that, just gave me an embarrassing fatherly talking-to,” Courfeyrac assures him swiftly. “My father is set on directing my law career, after all.”

“Fuck him.”

“I’ll leave that to my poor mother, thanks. Any other suggestions for the weekend?”

“You’re the worst,” Enjolras claims, half-heartedly. “Anyway, this means I’ll be coming back tomorrow, rather than in three months.”

“One country’s loss is another country’s gain,” Courfeyrac delights. “You’d think by now the Americans would be familiar with that concept.”

“Truth be told I don’t think the French government considers me a gain either.”

“Yeah, well,” Courfeyrac doesn’t have a quick response for that. “Are you coming straight to Paris?”

“I’ll need a place to stay for a while until I find something. Sorry if this is abrupt, but could you--?”

“My bed is always open to you, darling,” he offers, before realizing that he’s no longer in a position to do so comfortably. 

“And who else might I be sharing with?” Enjolras inquires, hesitantly, trying for tact. 

“Oh currently you’d have exclusive rights to it, things ended ugly with Louise,” he laughs. “Only we’re being evicted.”

“That sucks. Sorry, I don’t want to be an imposition.”

“We could look for a three-person flat.” The most obvious solution, that would be. 

“You, me and Pontmercy?” Enjolras asks. Despite having only ever met through skype, Courfeyrac has not failed to notice they aren’t likely to become the bestest of friends. 

“Is that a problem?” He keeps his tone as innocent as possible.

“ _No_ ,” lies Enjolras, very badly. It almost sounds as though he adds the next part through gritted teeth. “Sounds delightful.”

“I’m sure you’re thrilled,” he teases. “I’m about to meet your moral compass for lunch, want me to pass on a message?”

“Tell Ferre that he doesn’t have to pick me up from the airport,” Enjolras decides. “Bahorel and Feuilly insisted, after all.”

Courfeyrac thought Bahorel might, what with a brand new electrical car to show off and all. 

“Anything else, my liege?”

“I love you,” Enjolras adds, dutifully. 

“I’ll tell him,” Courfeyrac responds gravely. 

“I take it back.”

“That’s sadly not possible. Love you too, ange. Have a safe trip!”

* * *

**Monday, 1:32PM**

Something tightens in Courfeyrac’s chest when he observes how exhausted Combeferre looks, waiting for him in the designated café. Even Bossuet looks concerned from behind the counter, and he is certainly not a man of many worries. “Better take him home, and soon,” he offers along with the handshake. 

“Hey handsome,” Courfeyrac softly kicks Combeferre’s outstretched shin in greeting. “You wanna head back to my place and let me watch you sleep for an hour?”

“Respectfully, Courfeyrac, no I _really_ don’t,” Combeferre answers after his eyes blink slowly, rubbing a broad hand over his face. “Last time I drooled on your pillow.”

“My favorite pillow,” Courfeyrac agrees with fervor. “And yet I’d let you do it again in a heartbeat.”

Combeferre’s tired smile is worth many such sacrifices. “If I wanted to sleep I’d be back at Joly’s, passed out on his hypoallergenic sheets of inhumanly high thread count,” he claims. “We haven’t seen each other in ages.”

“Well, we’ve both been busy,” Courfeyrac sighs. “I thought Lamarque was going to fire me today and instead he told me he’d like to rehire me, on only one condition.”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows. It looks like a colossal effort. Really, he should be asleep, what is this? 

“The condition being that I don’t get myself arrested in the foreseeable future.”

“High demands,” Combeferre allows. “Your father’s doing?”

“Nigh impossible,” Courfeyrac agrees, not needing to confirm the follow-up question. “How often are you crashing at Joly’s, these days?”

“More often than not, admittedly,” Combeferre reveals. “They’ve changed our schedules too much - I can’t take the connection from home without getting up hours before my shifts. He’s been kind enough to let me stay, but I feel like shit about it.”

“I’m sure he’s glad about a study partner constantly at hand.”

“We’re both too tired to get much studying done most days,” Combeferre shrugs. “I’m pretty sure I’m starting to get on his nerves, though.”

“I very much doubt you get on anyone’s nerves.”

“You’re biased.”

“Am not.”

“ _So_ very biased,” Combeferre shakes his head, lip quirked. 

“Enj is coming back tomorrow,” he starts, an idea forming in his head. “He’s looking for a place. Also, you don’t have to pick him up from the airport, Bahorel’s new car is being taken out for a spin, which means that when they inevitably sit in traffic for three hours, at least they’ll have something more comfortable than your old metal box.”

“If you think I can live in a place with just Enjolras for company you are so very wrong. We would only leave for protests and then starve because neither of us remembered to get groceries.”

“Move in with me and Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac springs the offer on him, unexpectedly. Perhaps that’s taking advantage of Combeferre’s facilities currently running on low battery mode. “Enj said he’d be down with that. We could make it a foursome.”

“How enthusiastic exactly was Enjolras about this idea?” It seems Combeferre’s cold reasoning has not shut down entirely, it is too essential a part of him. Still, not yet time to cut his losses and move on. 

“Oh, you know our boy,” Courfeyrac grins. “Unbridled enthusiasm for all things Marius.”

“You’re thinking of Feuilly.”

“Right, my bad.”

Combeferre laughs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. 

“If you actually get Enj to agree, I’m in as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Combeferre smiles genuinely, pausing to yawn loudly. “Might be nice. I miss the way we used to live in each other’s pockets in school.”

“Hey, I’m not the one that insisted on moving in with my grandmas, in fact I specifically advised against such measures.”

“It was supposed to be temporary while you and Enj went off gallivanting,” Combeferre reminds him. Unlike him, Combeferre got started with his studies immediately after high school while Courfeyrac traipsed all around Europe for a year and a half with only Enjolras and whomever they met along the way for company. Oh, good times, those were. 

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

“Convince Enj,” Combeferre settles the argument generously. “Then I’ll work on getting more comfortable with Pontmercy too.” Courfeyrac brightens, clasping Ferre’s face firmly in his hands and smacking a loud kiss to his forehead that leaves Combeferre awkwardly chuckling. “You are the bestest boy in the whole world. Your next coffee is mine to pay.”

* * *

**Monday, 7:04PM**

After work ends for good, his penultimate stop of the day leaves him running into a most unexpected face. “Hello, hello!” he runs up to Grantaire, leaning over the bar to give him an enthusiastic hug that seems to very much surprise Grantaire. Pleasantly so, however, because fairly quickly strong arms are rubbing his back and he hears reluctant laughter. 

“Quite a warm welcome,” he comments. “Wasn’t sure you’d recognize my face, truth be told.”

“I follow you on instagram,” Courfeyrac claps an outraged hand over his chest. “I know all about your facial hair development. Now that I look at it it appears more of an _en_ velopment. Of your face. When did you get back from Brazil?”

“Week ago or so,” Grantaire rubs an embarrassed hand across the back of his neck. “The Eagle has been kind enough to let me crash upstairs with him, but this place is going down with the bar, so we’re looking for something new at the moment. It’s been stressful, sorry I haven’t been in contact.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” Courfeyrac shoves him playfully. “I should not be your priority in such times.”

“Sounds like you missed me.”

“Oh, like the R I breathe,” he swears, crossing his heart. “You got any time on your schedule? Say, Friday?”

“Could move some things around,” Grantaire plays at thinking it over. “I’ll text you.” 

“Good,” Courfeyrac nods. “Anyway, I’m here to pick up something Muse set aside for Prouvaire?”

“Ah!” Grantaire nods sagely. “Yes, she did tell me to expect someone to ask after this.” With those words of warning, he sets a huge, hulking plant pot on the bar. “Breadfruit, courtesy of Musichetta’s aunt.”

“Lovely,” Courfeyrac lies, thinking of his poor white shirt. Curse Jehan for being so cryptic. He would have taken an apron with him, if he had known. Well, friendship requires sacrifice sometimes. 

* * *

**Monday, 7:38PM**

“Do I give you the impression of a troublemaker?” Courfeyrac asks Jehan when they open the door for him. Before responding with a decisive ‘no’, they take the potted plant into their keeping, fussing over it and caressing the leaves. 

Courfeyrac is already halfway through an unspooling of his rollercoaster of a day before he realizes Jehan isn’t listening to him at all. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Do you know, I’ve not the slightest idea,” Jehan says wistfully, almost as if they were speaking only for their own benefit. “Something feels off.”

“What, like the thing with the vibes again? We could move some of your furniture around.”

“That’s very kind of you, and though the vibes in here are rancid, I’m referring to myself,” Prouvaire counters, tapping their fingers impatiently on the window sill. “My vibes have been the most rancid of them all.”

“Have they?”

“Oh yes,” Jehan nods. “Can’t concentrate on any of my coursework, I keep running late to class. Everything feels kind of off.”

“How long have you been feeling this way?”

“Don’t armchair me, that’s my job,” they retort immediately, snapping slightly. “I just realized I don’t actually want to talk to you about this.”

“Do you want a good, long cuddle instead?”

“No,” Jehan shakes their head. “I want to feel creative again.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but Jehan seems to have found a line of thought worth pursuing. “Should I move out?”

“Apartment hunting is kinda hard at the moment,” Courfeyrac shrugs. Jehan knows what they want, he tries never to counsel a specific course of action.

“That’s true,” they acknowledge, frowning. It’s not a common look on them. “Sorry, I’m being an awful host. How about we watch the film you came over here for? I’ll get the tea ready.”

* * *

**Tuesday, 4:29AM**

“Your lock is broken,” Enjolras announces his presence in Courfeyrac’s bedroom, early on Tuesday morning. Courfeyrac throws a pillow in the general direction of the noise before he realizes who it is speaking to him, whose face he now finally gets to see in person. 

“Well damn, Enj, did ya break it?” 

“I don’t do that at places where I am generally allowed in.”

Oh, he can just imagine the kind of face Enjolras is making right now, could, even with his limited artistic talent, immortalize it on a canvas more enduring than his mind. He wants to see it confirmed,

but his lids are too heavy to comply. It’s probably still dark, anyway. “Sounds like a problem for future me, come here,” he flails his arms around expectantly. 

“I haven’t showered in 48 hours,” Enjolras warns. 

“What else is new, you bleeding hippie?” Courfeyrac groans. “I’ll strip the sheets afterwards, they need a wash anyway.”

The faint rustle of clothes lets him know that his order is being followed. “How did you get Bahorel to pick you up at this hour any- argh, _holy fuck_ your hands are icicles.”

“I don’t think Feuilly and him slept yet. They invited me to come out to a bar with them,” Enjolras yawns against the back of his head. Yeah, that’d do it.

“Glad to have you back, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac just about manages to get out, settling back down, and patting at what he presumes to be his head, given the hair beneath his hands. 

“Glad to be back.” He hears as he drifts off.

* * *

**Tuesday, 7:21AM**

The next time he wakes is because Combeferre is being ordered by a groggy sounding Enjolras to be quiet when he takes his shoes off. “You’ll wake him up,” Enjolras hisses. 

“Did you break his lock?”

“We’re being evicted anyway,” Courfeyrac grumbles, “I’m awake, whassa matter?”

“I’m getting breakfast with Enjolras,” Combeferre pats his head in greeting, sitting far too close to the bed’s edge for Courfeyrac’s liking. “I’m afraid I’m a bit early, but Joly was up, so I was up, and I didn’t want to sleep in while he had to go on rotation, and so I’ve already had coffee.”

This does grab Courfeyrac’s attention. “Coffee? What time is it, Ferre?”

“Seven thirty, give or take.”

“I have _so_ many more minutes until I need to be at work,” Courfeyrac smiles into his pillow. “That’s fantastic.”

He’s been slowly coaxing Combeferre to crawl beneath the covers for about two of those precious minutes as he chats lazily with Enjolras, when Marius appears in the doorway, eyes wide. 

“Hello!” God, why does Courfeyrac’s voice still sound like he’s basically half-asleep? “Did you just get home? Why, _Marius_ \--”

“Grandfather wished for me to stay with him after dinner,” Pontmercy answers in that nervous uneven voice of his. “Good morning, Combeferre. Hello, um, Enjolras. Nice to finally meet you. Um, well, not that we haven’t met, just, um, in person. Nice to meet you in person?”

“Hello,” Enjolras suffers from an even more acute case of disgruntled sleepy-voice, it seems. Well, that’s something. Courfeyrac finds the strength to elbow him beneath the covers. “Good to make your acquaintance, Pontmercy.”

Someone snorts. He suspects Combeferre, but his face is conveniently turned away. 

“Are you terribly busy, Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac hums, propping himself up on his elbows. “Not presently. How did the...how did your _thing_ go?”

“Oddly,” Pontmercy settles on, after much apparent deliberation. “Very odd, I have to say. He’s left me a house. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, for, hum, well for obvious reasons. But I thought we might--” 

Courfeyrac is already nodding. “Ya. Let’s. I’ll call up Feuilly, shall I? After I’m done with work?”

Relief seems to flood Marius. 

“Please.”

Courfeyrac plops back down onto the pillow, stares at the ceiling for a while. 

“Why does he get a house and I get deported?” Enjolras grumbles, off to his left, pulling the covers over his head. 

“Inequities inherent under capitalism,” whispers Combeferre from his other side. 

* * *

**Tuesday, 6:54PM**

Marius’ elusive father, it seems, couldn’t just leave him a house. No, he has left him a house smack dab in a flourishing neighborhood of Paris, with a metro stop just around the corner, several floors and what is promising to be a beautiful rooftop terrace. 

That is not to say it is without issues, namely-- 

“So it’s very run down,” Feuilly blows warmth into his hands, rubbing them together as they stand in what is supposedly the living room. “No windows to speak of, several of the floors will need to be redone, to not even mention the bathrooms. No heating to speak of, either. Frankly, I’m not sure we can keep the kitchen. There’s mold in so many places even Alexander Fleming would lose his shit. Might be best to just take it all out.”

“No one’s lived here for years,” Marius admits, rather sheepishly. Courfeyrac thinks Marius mentioned that his father spent his last years outside of Paris in some institution or other. 

“Try decades,” Feuilly supplies. “Centuries, maybe. Surprised they haven’t torn it down.”

“Old enough to have monument protection, probably,” Courfeyrac tells a curious looking Feuilly. “As much as we may wish it, we can neither abolish nor demolish private property, and the government respects that, if nothing else, so the house has been allowed to decay all by itself.” 

“Lucky us,” Enjolras’ voice is dry, but Courfeyrac thinks he’s glad to have found something with a roof. Breakfast research with Combeferre had brought no viable alternatives for housing, Courfeyrac had been subject to live text-updates. “Can you do something with it?”

“If Bahorel is gracious enough to help me,” Feuilly scratches the ginger beard that is still growing patchy in some places. 

“Isn’t Bahorel your employee?” Marius wonders. 

“When I ask him to be,” Feuilly nods. 

“Well, anyway, now I actually have money to pay you to do something,” Marius beams. 

Feuilly throws an obvious mockery of that smile right back at him. 

“Great!” he says. It’s lighthearted, they’re all aware, but Pontmercy still stammers, helplessly awkward even after knowing Courfeyrac’s friends for two years. 

“How long, do you think?” Courfeyrac asks. “We are unfortunately on a bit of a tight schedule.”

“Well, if Mister Money here doesn’t want to splurge on more actual workers, a couple of months, perhaps?” Feuilly guesses. “If we do the bedrooms first you can technically move in before, but it won’t be a life of luxury, I’ll tell you that for free.”

“Enj has experience in shitting in a bucket, doesn’t he? Remember Latvia?” Courfeyrac pulls his friend in, ruffling his hair. It speaks volumes to the depths of his thoughts that Enjolras simply lets him, not even offering up token resistance. 

“No way of setting this up earlier?” Marius wonders anxiously. 

“Unlikely,” Feuilly shrugs. “Although - is Grantaire still looking for work?”

“Grantaire is perpetually looking for work,” Courfeyrac laughs. 

This brief mention at last draws Enjolras back into the conversation. “Grantaire is in Paris?” 

Things currently not lost on Courfeyrac: One - Enjolras’ voice goes up half a pitch. Two - Enjolras’ back straightens in realisation that three pairs of eyes are now trained quite firmly on him. Three - Redness shoots into Enjolras’ face, not just his cheeks, which could be explained away by a sudden rush of cold wind, but his forehead and ears and chin, even a bit of his throat turns red. It’s as endearing as it is telling. Clearing his throat loudly, Enjolras adds: “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“He was in town for Joly’s party last year, wasn’t he?” Feuilly wonders. 

“But Enjolras was still across the pond, as it were. He couldn’t get expelled in time.”

Somehow Enjolras still has the wherewithal to show him a bony middle finger amidst all the blushing he is doing.

“Ah,” Feuilly nods. “Yes, that’ll do it.”

“He’s looking for a place too,” Courfeyrac supplies, because it seems like Enjolras won’t ask any further questions while others are present, showing unusual restraint. “Boss’s place is getting torn down with the Corinthe to make way for that shopping center. R has been staying with him.”

“Have we thought about protesting that?” 

“We did,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “Bahorel broke his right arm chained to the Corinthe. Prouvaire nearly got shot. Didn’t work - I sent you letters, remember? - they’re thinking of adding luxury penthouses above the mall.” 

“Fucking shit of a housing market at the moment,” Feuilly huffs, lighting himself a cigarette. “Rent has gone up at my place, too, since they’ve begun to ‘urbanize’ my block. Won’t be able to afford it next month.”

Marius looks crestfallen enough upon hearing this that Feuilly offers him a drag of his cigarette. Stressed, Marius even accepts, though he merely lets it burn in his finger after a single inhale leaves him coughing. “You know, Feuilly, there’s twelve bedrooms in this place.”

“What are you saying?”

Looking at the feet he awkwardly shuffles around on the questionable wooden floors, Marius offers: “One of them could be yours. I owe you way too much for all the times you fixed my sink and doors anyway.”

Courfeyrac throws a warning glance when Feuilly allows himself to look openly confused. Mercifully, Feuilly continues merely to take out another cigarette, beginning to grin, and saying nothing of the money Courfeyrac gave him for fixing everything that had ever gone wrong in their shared apartments. 

“Does that - um, what do you think?”

Feuilly makes a non-committal sound, which Courfeyrac supposes is meant to signify he’ll think it over, but he is growing ever distracted by that number Marius dropped, so he cuts in. “Twelve bedrooms, you say?”

“Yes,” Marius nods, as though severely embarrassed by this. 

“Interesting.”

Were Combeferre here, he’d see right where this is going and swiftly put a gentle but firm stop to it. It’s madness, surely. But the more that Courfeyrac seems to think about it, the more reasonable it becomes. 

“What are you guys doing Friday night?”

* * *

**Thursday, 7:12PM**

Before Friday rolls around, however, Courfeyrac has a very important once a month tradition to uphold that involves being picked up from Lamarque’s office by a haggard looking Combeferre. 

Combeferre is napping on the chair next to Courfeyrac’s desk as he finishes up for the day. “What in God’s good name are you still doing here at this hour, son?”

Lamarque looks vaguely concerned about the napping man in his office, but he’s seen Combeferre around often enough to be able to place him, so he directs most of his attention back to Courfeyrac, who retorts: “Could ask you the same, Sir, but I don’t like to pry.”

“Don’t sass me,” Lamarque snipes. 

“ _I_ am researching the pro bono case I showed you on Monday,” he draws the first syllable out in the hopes that a convenient, good lie might manifest itself, but the truth comes out anyway. 

“Lafayette took the case? I’m glad. You'll impress him greatly, I’m sure, even without putting in overtime.”

Ah, drat. 

“Nope.” Courfeyrac bites his lip, shakes his head. “Wasn’t interested, said he was already overworked.”

“Son, look at me.”

Courfeyrac channels all the nonchalance he doesn’t actually possess and follows the command. “What are you doing?”

“Would it be bad if - hypothetically - I were offering legal counsel so that they don’t get screwed over by the attorney assigned to them by the state?”

“Well,” Lamarque takes a deep, calming breath. “It wouldn’t technically be illegal. That’s something, at least.”

Courfeyrac shows his teeth. “I thought so too.”

“You just don’t know how to stop, do you?”

“Half of my impulse control is currently asleep next to me,” Courfeyrac admits. 

“No, I’m awake,” Combeferre sighs, not lifting his head. “You type too loudly.”

“Right, well,” Lamarque rolls his shoulders. “I’m heading home. Do remember what I told you, son.”

“Good night, Sir,” Courfeyrac pointedly calls after him. Then he turns to Combeferre. “Are you about ready to go? Your grandmas are expecting us.”

“They expected us half an hour ago, before your righteous indignation got ahold of you.”

“ _You_ asked me about the case.”

“Because I could see that it bothered you,” Combeferre tells him evenly. He adjusts his glasses, then takes them off and tries to clean them on the coarse material of his jumper, frustrated when it does not work. Courfeyrac takes them from him and risks the sleeve of one of his favorite work shirts. 

“Are you not telling me what’s been bothering _you_ so that I can properly play dumb when your grandmothers interrogate me?” 

Combeferre holds the door open for him, seemingly torn. 

“They want me to apply for the Algerian thing.”

“It is _not_ bothering you that they want you to have a prestigious research position. In fact, I bet you really want that scholarship. Let’s not pretend, Ferre, it’s hot shit, you talk about it often enough. Oh - are you afraid you won’t be accepted?”

“No,” Combeferre shakes his head, thanking Courfeyrac as he puts the glasses back on his nose just the way he knows Combeferre likes them to sit. “I’m afraid I will get it if I apply. My supervisor already said he’d write me a ‘glowing letter of recommendation’, his words not mine.”

“The realization of all we’ve ever wanted can sometimes be scary,” Courfeyrac glances at him sidelong.

“It would put me an ocean away,” Combeferre finally presses out. 

“Not _that_ far; I can swim the distance of the Suez canal.”

“And I’d have no idea how long I’d be gone for. No idea how long I’d be researching parasites out in the wild, potentially without reception…” There’s something that Combeferre isn’t saying, something more painful still which he won’t admit to. Courfeyrac thinks he has a faint idea of what it is, but he has pushed enough already. Some things have gone unspoken for years already.

“Enj was gone for almost two years. Hell, before that, him and I were still gone for over a year, travelling and getting up to no good. And did that put any sort of damper on our friendship?”

“No,” Combeferre clears his throat, frowning even more. “I suppose it didn’t. But that was then--”

“You should apply,” Courfeyrac rams him softly with his shoulder. “I’ll write you the worst dramatic letters you’ve ever received, every day. We won’t lose touch. I’m not _letting_ you.”

Combeferre makes another sound of contemplation Courfeyrac can’t quite figure out and then switches the subject as abruptly as it was brought up.

* * *

**Friday, 9:13PM**

Come Friday night, Courfeyrac paces in front of the tables at which the vast majority of his closest friends are seated. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here tonight. Spoiler: it is not to commemorate this shithole of a bar one last time before the building comes down, no offense, Bossuet.”

“Enjolras already told me,” Jehan admits, “I’m in. Now I merely wonder at your next steps.”

“Jehan, I love you, yeah? But don’t ruin this for me, okay?”

“Sorry, love,” they throw him a kiss before continuing to scroll on their phone, seeming distracted.

“Two words,” Courfeyrac holds up the appropriate amount of fingers: “Communal living.”

He’d expected a much more positive reaction. As it happens, most of those assembled just blink once or twice in confusion. Joly’s mouth is hanging open. Next to him, Bossuet nudges it shut with one finger, not even needing to look away from Courfeyrac to know to do so. “Alright,” he tries again, “Let me add two more: _Rent-free_ communal living.”

“Well,” Marius begins, stammering like he always does when he’s not super-confident about the topic, the place, or the conversational partners, “It’ll cost a pretty penny to fix everything up, but then, afterwards, yes-- only the utility bills and the like.”

That does seem to tempt a few more considerations. “Would be a good reason to finally move out at my parents’,” Bahorel admits, drumming his fingers on the beer-stained table Feuilly is eyeing warily. “You in, carrot tops?” 

“Pontmercy was kind enough to offer,” Feuilly shrugs.

“My dorm contract is almost running out,” Joly whispers to Bossuet, who nods thoughtfully and whispers something which Courfeyrac cannot hear. 

“Good location, too, right next to the metro,” Enjolras says this with a sidelong glance at Combeferre. “No trouble at all getting to any of the faculties.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Combeferre laughs, shaking his head, hands held in a gesture of surrender. “I already agreed.”

“Because it’s very hard to say no to my pout and I try not to use that power for evil too often,” Courfeyrac nods, solemnly. 

“Yes, that’s it,” Combeferre states drily. 

A hasty set of feet jog up the stairs, accompanied by a curse as they trip over the last step. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Grantaire comes through the door at last, tangling himself in his scarf as he struggles to remove it. When he finally does, his hair has suffered much for it. “Foot traffic these days, am I right?”

“Hey, R,” Courfeyrac greets, excitement carrying over into his voice. A glance at Enjolras tells him that he’s staring at Grantaire and trying to disguise this by affecting a bored face. It’s not going great. Upon a kick from Feuilly, Enjolras stops it immediately, but it’s too late; Grantaire has already noticed the staring, and has reciprocated. 

“Hello, Grantaire,” Enjolras greets, stiffly. 

Grantaire does a comically convincing double-take. “Do I -- do I know you?”

This serves to bring consternation upon Enjolras face, he gapes more obviously. Grantaire breaks, face splitting into a grin as he comes close enough to lean down and press a noisy kiss to Enjolras’ cheek. “Kidding, I’m totally kidding. You look good, Enj, as radiant as the day you first spit on me.”

Even after twenty plus years, mentions of how those two met in kindergarten will still turn Enjolras’ face bright red, though Courfeyrac supposes that may have something to do with the unexpected kiss as well, because almost as if he cannot help it, Enjolras’ hand comes up to rub at where Grantaire’s lips were previously, that thoughtful frown now on his face. “The beard is new,” he finally presses out. 

“No, I had a beard at boarding school as well, remember? Her name was Flo?”

Half the room guffaws as Grantaire takes the offered seat next to Bahorel and is promptly treated to a headlock which dishevels his hair even further. Enjolras is still frowning, going worryingly silent. They haven’t seen each other in at least three years, and even then always very sporadically. Grantaire came to their high school graduation but was on a plane to Brazil three days later, his father’s funeral over and done with. As far as reunions go, this one is underwhelming, and Courfeyrac can see that Enjolras is visibly confused by it. 

“Courfeyrac, the absolute madlad, has suggested we all move into a house together,” Bahorel explains. “You in?”

“Oh, for sure.” Grantaire is at last released from the headlock. “Though that was borderline coercion, don’t you think?”

“I never think,” Bahorel insists, dismissive. 

“Well, in any case, I’m desperate,” Grantaire shrugs. 

“And don’t we all know it?” Feuilly grins. 

  
So, technically speaking, if Courfeyrac is being honest with himself, _that_ is how the entire mess starts. Or perhaps that is merely how the mess is exacerbated. Hard to say, truthfully.


	2. Two. "Yuputka"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is mostly Bossuet going: "haha if you were a fruit you'd be a fine-apple." and Joly going red in the face. Deal with it. He's sipping that pine-apple juice.

Two. “Yuputka” (ulwa)

Definition :  _ the sense of something crawling across your skin _

* * *

**Monday, 8:25AM**

The doctor’s office is too heavily decorated, Joly thinks. It provides the opposite of the comfort it is supposed to. All the wall decals make Joly antsy, and the little knick knacks scattered on the desk are probably anything but sterile. It’s not how he would design his own office--

“Mister Joly?” A kindly voice asks from the door, and when Joly turns to answer him the doctor’s face also looks kindly. He’s already going grey at the temples, laughter lines ring his eyes. He looks just like a man that would leave unhygienic paraphernalia on his desk out of sentimentality. Joly can make peace with that. 

“Yes, that’s me,” he clears his throat. “My father referred me to you. You’ve been checking that his TB hasn’t flared up again, he told me.”

“Do you suffer from tuberculosis yourself, Mr. Joly?”

“Oh, no.” Joly shakes his head decisively. “Non-eosinophilic asthma. Intrinsic, if you will. Oh, and chronic joint pain, but that’s not under your purview as I understand it.”

“You’re right about that.” The kindly doctor smiles. “What brings you to me today, Mr. Joly?”

“My pneumologist is retiring,” Joly relays as he shrugs. “Your reviews were overwhelmingly positive.”

“That’s very good to hear,” he smiles some more. Joly wonders if that does not get exhausting at some point. “And since I don’t plan on retiring for at least a decade, I think we ought to get to know each other a little better. What do you say?”

Joly says, “Sure.” Because what else would he say? No thank you, followed by a swift walk out the door? Unlikely. Entirely unlikely. So he answers a few questions, the ones that always crop up, which he essentially already jotted down on the questionnaire the nurse gave him at the front desk. Then, inevitably, they enter stormy waters. 

“Which medications are you on, currently?”

“Oh, there’s a list,” Joly points to the file the nurse placed on that trinket-laden desk. “It’s somewhat extensive.”

The doctor takes a while to peruse it, not entirely able to hide his surprise at some of the things listed. He’s only twenty-three, shouldn’t really be taking that much. But, well, when you’re shit out of luck with genetics… 

“What are you taking the St. John’s wort for?”

“It’s self-medicated,” Joly admits. “I get low sometimes, it helps me not to feel so defeated by my comorbidities.”

“Well, that’s--”

“I’m not taking Theophylline for my asthma anymore, so it’s okay. I double-checked. No interactions with the budesonide or anything else.”

“You’ve certainly put a lot of thought into it,” the doctor comments, though it hardly feels like praise. “Do you feel these medications are working for you?”

“Most of the time, yes,” Joly confirms. “I get asthma attacks more frequently than I get joint flare-ups, but that’s usually stress-related. Can’t really avoid stress. It’s been accumulating recently and that’s made the asthma worse. Last month the salbutamol didn’t seem to work that well, I did a bit of research, and I think a leukotriene-antagonist may be a good fit...ketamine seems a tad extreme in my case, I don’t think I’m that hopeless a patient.”

“What was it that you said you do?”

He didn’t say - the doctor didn’t ask - but he’s fairly certain it's written in very legible script on the questionnaire hidden amongst the doctor’s files.

“I’m in my fourth year of medical school,” Joly reveals on a deep exhale. “Lots of stress, you’ll recall from your own studies.”

The doctor considers him for a long while, eyes critical. Then, out of the blue: “Are you adopted, Mr. Joly?”

“Right, you’ve met my father,” Joly realizes after recovering from his initial surprise. It’s rather an abrupt question, but not an unusual one, since his father is the most caucasian-looking man on this plane, and Joly - well, Joly is  _ not _ . 

“I ask, because these intense stress-related autoimmune diseases always seem to be connected to some childhood trauma. In fact I’ve studied this connection for many years, and we’ve long since made headway--”

“You think adoption is a traumatic process?” Joly wonders, confused but undeniably curious. 

“Is it traumatic to be ripped from the mother who birthed you and brought into a culture which doesn’t at all resemble all you’ve known? I would say so!” The doctor still looks at him kindly, but now some pity is there as well, pity that Joly is hardly deserving of - his asthma is  _ not _ that bad. “Have you thought about involving a therapist?”

Well, that’s disappointing.

“Is this because of the St. John’s wort?”

“As a medical student, surely you see how this looks? If there is a hidden trauma, it should be addressed. It might ease your symptoms considerably.”

“So, I’m not adopted,” Joly informs him, feeling a sudden urge to flee. “My mother is the ambassador to France. The, uh, Vietnamese one.”

In fact, his childhood was wonderful. Joly loves his family, they are not at all a source of stress. 

The kindly doctor looks vaguely embarrassed, but still smiles. Now that is true dedication to the craft.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Joly excuses himself, heartfelt. 

Outside, it’s beginning to rain. What a shit day. 

* * *

**Monday, 11:01AM**

Combeferre has green tea waiting for him, his massive torso hunched over on Joly’s new couch, pen stuck behind his ear. Next to him, the spare blanket Joly draped over him when he left this morning is meticulously folded, lending the impression that one would have to have been foolish to think Combeferre ever passed a night here - even when Joly had taken a rather amusing photo of his drool-covered pillow as proof and passed it on to Courfeyrac. Speaking of Joly’s abused pillow - he hears the washing machine rumble from the bathroom, and finds the pillow in question has been stripped of its casing. Combeferre really is the most polite guest Joly could hope for, very forthcoming. 

“Getting on?” 

He receives a desperate look in response.

“Getting progressively more unhinged,” Combeferre eventually reveals, with some chagrin. “I dislike writing about myself - feel like a massive jerk-off.”

“Oh, this is that scholarship application? I thought we were talking about microbio.”

“But that’s not until Tuesday,” Combeferre blinks at him dumbly. Joly furrows his brows. A quick look at the calendar tells him he’s not the one confused. 

“Ferre,” he looks at the couch-hogger sternly. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Fri - no, Saturday?”

“It’s _ Monday _ ,” Joly keeps up a firm demeanor. “The exam is  _ tomorrow _ .”

This makes Combeferre pause, he opens his mouth, as if to deny Joly, then passes a glance of his own at the calendar - “Don’t panic, we can still cram in enough for you to pass.”

“I’m not panicked,” Combeferre claims. Upon inspection, he doesn’t appear to be panicked, merely very confused. “I already studied for microbiology last week.”

Of course he did. “Good library books piqued your interest?”

“I may have gone on a popular science bender,” Combeferre admits, sighing. “I know, I know. Do you still want to review for tomorrow?”

“Well, I didn’t study nearly enough. So yes,  _ please _ .”

About two hours later, when a coffee break is called, Joly’s phone chimes with the dulcet customized ringtone of Boss’s drunken laugh. Combeferre shakes his head, but does not comment. Joly can live with disapproval, he can, but while Combeferre is here… “Do you think there’s something wrong with Bossuet?”

It’s been bothering Joly for weeks now, but Grantaire had laughed at him for five minutes when Joly delved deeper. He’s been keeping quiet about it ever since. Combeferre won’t laugh at him though, too polite even if he felt a laugh was warranted.

“ _ So  _ many things,” Combeferre’s tone is pleasant and calm as always. It’s hard to describe how one notices that he is joking, but after a few years Joly has developed what he will insufficiently label an instinct for it. 

“He’s losing his hair and he’s been acting weird.”

“Hair loss runs in his family,” Combeferre shrugs. “And what is ‘weird’ with Bossuet, truly? Are his puns no longer up to par?”

“No, they’re great!” Joly hastens to assure him. “Just on Friday, when Courfeyrac called that ominous meeting that turned out to be a ploy to get all of us on board with moving in together, what  _ was  _ that, by the way? Who comes up with that? Anyway, he made a really good one on Friday.” 

Combeferre’s face has taken on that unmistakably fond look it always does when Courfeyrac’s name is dropped. It’s almost like a conditioned response at this point. Joly finds it rather endearing, but the fond look always disappears the second it is pointed out. 

“He’s just… I don’t know. He’s been acting weird. Can’t explain it.” Joly realizes he is waltzing dangerously close to a territory where Combeferre could get clued into his perfidious feelings like Grantaire did and backtracks hard. “Anyway, what’s up with those African mosquitos, huh? You got malaria risk at night and sleeping sickness during the day. Wild, huh?”

“I’m buzzing with excitement.” 

Ha. 

“You know, if you actually delivered your jokes with inflection, you could fill stadiums.”

* * *

**Tuesday, 6:15PM**

By the time they’re finished packing up all of Bossuet’s belongings, Grantaire has ducked out with the vaguest possible excuse of ‘having a thing’ and Musichetta has gone back home for girls’ night with her roommate, leaving Joly cracking open a beer of accomplishment with just Bossuet. One beer with Bossuet then turns into a crate of beer with Bossuet.

Bossuet, who has been acting weird lately - and now, by running a hand over his head and asking Joly if he should shave it. Joly is horrified. “But you  _ love _ your hair. _ I _ love your hair.”

“They make really good wigs these days, Jolllly,” is the surprising response. But then Joly supposes it's not unlike his best friend at all to take these things as they come, ever sunnily disposed. It makes Joly dissolve into a fit of giggles, exacerbated by the alcohol thrumming in his system. “Besides, what is the bathroom situation at the house like? Have we considered that yet? The less hair to take care of, the better.”

Joly reaches out, runs his fingers all across Bossuet’s scalp. It’s the alcohol, he’ll say if asked, only Bossuet doesn’t ask, merely closes his eyes and leans into the touch as though he enjoys it. “What do we think about this whole moving thing anyway?”

“Not like I have much choice in the matter, do I?” Bossuet laughs, pausing Joly’s ministration by taking Joly’s hands into his own, massaging. “Pontmercy is a good lad. We like Pontmercy.”

“He got you expelled.”

At the time Joly may have been decidedly averse to Pontmercy, but it is rather difficult to stay mad at such a helpless creature. Almost like growing angry at a puppy for pissing on the rug. 

“Thank God for that,” Bossuet crosses himself swiftly after that heartfelt declaration, breaking out into a giggle. 

“Not sure how I feel about having so many housemates,” Joly reveals, nervously glancing at Bossuet. He is offered another bottle of beer and takes it for lack of something else to do. 

“You practically have a roommate right now.”

“Combeferre is more like a very large houseplant that someone leaves on my couch four nights a week.”

“Imagine a houseplant that actually could make you coffee,” Bossuet gasps. They spend the next indeterminable amount of minutes just giggling on the floor of a building that will soon cease to exist.

“Hey,” Bossuet turns to face him when they’re both left panting on the floor, exhausted from laughing too hard. “Hey, do you remember when we had that threesome the summer after high school?”

This, Joly thinks somewhere in the back of his mind, is exactly what Joly meant when he told Combeferre Bossuet had been acting weird. There’s been a lot of wistful remembrances of past memories that do nothing at all to stop Joly from feeling like a wretched perv. 

Because he’s stupidly in love with his best friend, spends half his day thinking about his embarrassed smile, his habit of laughing off mishaps that would ruin other people’s days, his broad chest and his kind soul and his puns. Yes, his wonderful best friend who is very happily committed to a beautiful, fascinating woman with eyes like a fortune-teller and delicate hands and small feet and-- 

Joly is pathetic. 

“Hey, do you remember when you wanted to become a lawyer?” He asks in that same nostalgic tone, hoping to distract Bossuet with the sheer ridiculousness of that episode of his life. 

“Do you --” Bossuet burps, apologizes, carries on, “Want to be a threesome with me and Muse?”

He inhales some of the beer, his chest closes up. Oh, here comes the coughing. “Do I…  _ what _ ?”

Bossuet is staring at him, blinking slowly. He’s expecting an answer. Joly couldn’t possibly give an answer to that, Bossuet is drunk off his mind. 

“Ask me again when we’re both sober,” Joly buys himself some time. 

“Mmmkay,” Bossuet strokes Joly’s cheek, closes his eyes. A few seconds later, he begins snoring. It takes a long time for Joly to follow suit. He’s having palpitations. 

* * *

**Wednesday, 12:43PM**

When Joly comes stumbling into Bossuet’s kitchen late in the day, he doesn’t expect to find Musichetta humming to herself like some idealized cottage fae while she makes a very nice-smelling breakfast, having probably already worked today. Or perhaps he had hoped? Yes, Joly had hoped he could sneak out of here like the poor, confused man he is and go cry about his misfortunes in peace. Combeferre isn’t even crashing at his place today, it's an ideal day for a crying session.

“Hey, you,” she throws him one of those devastating smiles over her shoulder. “Hungry? Seemed like you and Boss had one hell of a night.”

“Oh, I’m--” He has no excuse. It’s his day off. No obligations until dinner with his mom comes around. “I could eat, okay.”

“Boss not coming outside?”

“He’s still conked out,” Joly forces himself to smile like he normally would after a night where his drunk best friend whom he is in love with  _ didn’t  _ proposition him on behalf of both his girlfriend and himself.

“Wore him out pretty badly, huh?” 

Once more, Joly feels his heart speed up. There’s a thin film of sweat on his hand, they’re clammy around the cup of tea that Musichetta presses into his hand. “I -  _ no _ .”

Musichetta quirks one of her very expressive eyebrows at him. “Okay, then. Something the matter with you? Did something happen?”

“I don’t recall,” Joly lies. “No recollection past the second bottle of beer, whatsoever.”

“Ah,” Musichetta smiles. “Might I come to your aid with an omelette of remembrance?”

“You can try,” Joly responds weakly, feeling his stomach churn. Faint sounds from the bedroom announce Bossuet’s imminent arrival. On the way out he trips over some of last night’s emptied bottles. Once or twice, a loud “whoops” resounds heartfelt through the walls. 

“Good morning, my lovelies,” Bossuet greets them cheerfully, pressing a kiss to Musichetta’s cheek. He turns to Joly, who is not quick enough to hide that he was staring. “You want one too, Jolllly dear?”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“I’ll brush them just for you if you like,” Bossuet winks, trudging off to the bathroom and returning to enclose Joly in a bear hug that feels too good to tolerate for very long and deliver on the promised kiss, going above and beyond, even, because it ends up being much more than just the one he offered.

“Sorry, massive hangover,” Joly explains when Bossuet glances at him with evident concern.

“Doesn’t even remember last night,” Musichetta joins in, serving up the omelette. There is a glance exchanged between the couple that, to Joly, seems significant but indecipherable. 

Bossuet nods. “Most of it is a blur for me too. Think we overdid it a bit.”

After scarfing down his omelette as quickly as he can without being overtly rude, Joly politely thanks Musichetta, and then comes up with the rather flimsy sounding excuse of needing to nap and shower before dinner with his mom. He’s been known to shower at Bossuet’s place, the excuse makes no sense at all, but the two of them are too good to suspect any ill of him and so don’t question his haste to leave. 

* * *

**Thursday, 11:20AM**

“You guys really should be wearing masks for this, you know that, right?” He calls out to Feuilly and Grantaire, both of them busy getting ready to paint the kitchen walls after they’ve spent the previous mornings getting everything out while Joly sits on a blanket Feuilly spread out for him specifically, trying to study and failing out of concern for his friends. (Which is the only reason, of course, not the fact that this morning Bossuet texted him a selfie from his bed captioned ‘miss you here’ no, that has nothing to do with his distraction at all, what?)

Word on the street is that Pontmercy is springing for a brand-new kitchen. Joly can’t wait to see what comes out of that. 

“Screw responsibility, we die of mesothelioma like men,” boasts Grantaire, brandishing his paint roller like a torch. Several rivulets of mint green paint make their way down his arm. Joly is suddenly reminded of a picture he recently saw on the internet of a man eating paint he mistook for yoghurt. He supposes he understands that poor old man, if only in that brief moment. 

Grantaire tosses him a magazine, in which a very aesthetically pleasing kitchen model is circled. “What do you think of that one?”

“It will do, I suppose.”

“Pontmercy picked it out,” Grantaire grins. “Who knew the boy had something resembling taste?”

“There’s a lot of black.”

“Which means we can spill stuff to our hearts’ content and don’t have to worry about staining the material. Very insightful of Pontmercy.”

“A man of taste, truly,” Feuilly adds, feigning solemnity but all too soon breaking into a wide grin.

“Do you guys seriously not have masks?” Joly asks, when it looks like Grantaire is seriously considering just having at the wall as he is. 

“Left them in the van,” Feuilly, a blessed voice of reason during all trying times, remembers. “I’ll get them. Fret not, good doctor.”

When Feuilly returns, he even has one for Joly. “You don’t need to worry about mesothelioma,” he thinks to reassure Joly. His goodness knows no bounds. “I think this house was built before people figured out how to properly use asbestos.”

“I’m more worried about the paint fumes.”

“That’s why we’re doing the windows over the course of the week,” Feuilly winks. “Bit drafty as is, but we’ve got proper air circulation going on here, I assure you.”

“Floors seem a bit mouldy too,” Joly worries at his lower lip when he voices this concern. Today is the first day he had the time to inspect this house he is supposed to give up his wonderful dorm room for. 

“Bahorel and I are doing the top floor next week and then the ground floor after that,” Feuilly explains, smiling at him encouragingly. “We’ve got a plan.”

“That’s good,” Joly nods, “Plans are good.”

Then his phone chimes. It’s not Bossuet’s custom ringtone, not a custom one at all. 

“Speaking of plans,” Grantaire snorts from where he is beginning his adventure in wall painting, “Duty calls or booty calls?”

“It’s Musichetta,” Joly says, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. Well, it’s not like they’ve never texted before, but evidently not enough for him to set a custom ringtone for her. He’ll have to change that soon, but what to pick for her? “She’s asking about lunch?”

Grantaire looks around the kitchen he and Feuilly spent the last few days destroying. “Well we’ve nothing for you or the lady here, I’m afraid. I’m thinking we’ll do pizza later? We had a very late breakfast.”

Feuilly pats his belly, meaningfully, then turns his attention to painting. 

“Musichetta is asking about getting lunch with me at some place where the food doesn’t taste of the cardboard box it comes in.”

“Then go woo the lady with your embassy connections,” Grantaire waves a hand at him. “Scram.”

“I’m  _ not _ wooing--” 

“He’s right,” Feuilly points out. “She was the one who asked. Let yourself be woo-ed by the lady, Doctor.”

“Point,” Grantaire admits. 

“You guys are the worst. Feuilly, I’m putting the mask on your toolbox, okay? Stay safe, I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Tomorrow is Friday,” Grantaire calls after him. 

So it is. Time flies. 

* * *

**Thursday, 12:17PM**

He’s late enough that Musichetta is already seated at the table he reserved last-minute, late enough that he thinks he may have been a bit of a brush-off to the extraordinarily polite portier who asked how his mother is doing. Normally, he takes very good care to keep the family name pristine. He’ll just have to tip very well, maybe then he’ll feel better. 

Musichetta looks up when she hears someone coming, smiling and oh, Joly is pathetic. He’s  _ so _ pathetic. But then, at a second glance, something is off with this picture, beautiful as it is. 

“Boss in the bathroom?”

She looks confused, then makes a noise of understanding. “No, he’s at work.”

What in the illustrious hells is going on?

“Is he?” Asks Joly, feeling his throat beginning to get tight. Also, is it warm in this establishment? Is it possible they’re still keeping the heaters on in March? He’ll have to ask. 

“I thought today it could be just the two of us,” Musichetta smiles, leaning forward with a twinkle in her eyes that is worrisomely attractive. “Boss had you all to himself on Tuesday, it’s only fair, wouldn’t you agree?”

As if that is something that they do regularly. As if he has ever hung out with his best friend’s girlfriend, just the two of them. 

He tides things over with a weak chuckle before he finally manages to say yes. 

Here’s the thing: sometimes he feels like Musichetta might like him. Like him as more than a particularly nice friend of her boyfriend, that is. Asking him to lunch would indicate as much, under normal circumstances. But then he sees Musichetta interact with Bossuet and realizes it's only wishful thinking, misplaced hope dripping poison into his ear. Those two are so happy with one another, it’s almost unbelievable. Well, it would be unbelievable if he didn’t witness it with his own eyes every single time they hang out together. Which happens often. So painfully often. 

And the worst thing is that Joly enjoys it, almost like he gets a kick out of suffering from his heartbreak. Spending time with Bossuet and Musichetta has made for some of his happiest memories in the two years since Bossuet met her. 

“So,” Musichetta prompts, meaningfully. Joly realizes he has been keeping very quiet. He clears his throat - man, breathing is not easy. 

“Would you like to look at the menu?”

“Think I already know what I want,” she tells him, the tip of her very pink tongue darting out to wet lips that are an equally beautiful shade of pink. 

“Oh, yes, of course. You already had time to look at it. Sorry for the wait.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Okay,” he clears his throat again. “Shall we order, then?”

“Coming down with something?”

“Yeah, my throat has been all weird recently.”

“Allergy season, huh? Asthma must be acting up.”

“It’s not allergy triggered, actually,” Joly corrects. “It’s just like my brand to be in pain for no discernible reason.”

Musichetta pulls off a sympathetic pout very well, he has to say. Thankfully, she soon chooses to simply take the initiative and tell Joly all about her current issues regarding the articles she’s been writing. It takes a while for Joly’s heart to feel normal again, but when he does, they end up talking long past dessert. 

(He insists on paying, having the big tip to think about, and then loses his breath once more when Musichetta makes him swear to let her take him out the next time.)

* * *

**Thursday, 4:37PM**

It is only after taking a long detour through the park that they arrive on Musichetta’s doorstep, where they promptly run into Boss. He’s making his way towards them, looking absolutely ecstatic. Upon closer consideration, something is different. 

“Oh, baby you look so good!” Musichetta coos, throwing her arms around his neck. Bossuet’s a tall guy, he can lift her up no problem, and that is exactly what he does, catching the dislodged newsboy hat at the very last second. When it comes off, Joly realizes just what has changed: Bossuet has a shaved head now. 

“You think so?” He’s smiling a bashful little smile as he runs a hand over his bare head. “It’s new, I’ll admit to that.”

“It’s sexy, is what it is,” she insists, turning to glance at Joly over her shoulder. “Right?”

Yes. So unbelievably attractive and not at all how Joly feared he would react to Bossuet’s change of hairstyle. It’s actually a much worse reaction, because he’s fairly sure he’s just making an ass of himself right now. Honestly, how dare the world be this unfair? What has he done to deserve this? Which god did he upset and is it worth investigating? Will any of them have mercy on him?

“Mhm.” He says instead, giving a thumb’s up that feels just as awkward as it must look. 

Musichetta laughs, throwing her head back ever so slightly as she does. “Well, I need a shower.”

As Muse kisses him goodbye, he could swear she misses his mouth by less than an inch. It’s just a whisper of a thing, so soft he hardly feels it, but simultaneously he feels a lot. Like his stupidly pounding heart. He watches her go inside, notices Bossuet has caught him out, tries to stammer an excuse. “No, I _ know _ ,” Bossuet agrees, heartfelt. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?” Bossuet smiles, sunnily. Right, why would he be? He’s the one who is with her. And she loves him. And he has complete faith in that love and doesn’t question it. His girlfriend just spent lunch with the best friend he now knows is stupidly attracted to her and he’s not worried in the slightest. He probably also has complete trust in his best friend that he wouldn’t pull some shit despite the stupid attraction he now knows of. Joly wouldn’t even know in which direction to pull the shit. All directions are currently shit. 

“You wanna come upstairs?” Bossuet asks, grabbing his hand and massaging it, noting how tense Joly is. Joly regrets telling him in middle school that massages are his weakness. “Damn, your pulse is all fast, are you okay? Did something happen? Do you need to lie down?”

“I really--” he swallows. “Prouvaire expects me.”

Prouvaire does not expect him at all. 

Maybe they are actually expecting Bossuet? Shit. Joly is pathetic.

“Pity,” Bossuet sounds earnest, smiling softly and looking unfairly handsome in the fading March sunlight. “We would have loved to have you.”

Joly may be having an asthma attack. That, at least, is what it feels like for a moment. He fishes around his pockets for his inhaler as his throat gets ever tighter. Bossuet’s face turns quickly from soft to worried, especially when he easily reaches into Joly’s inner jacket pocket where he has kept his inhaler for all of his life and presses it into his hand firmly. 

“Thanks,” Joly manages weakly when he can breathe again.

“Sure you don’t wanna lie down?” 

Bossuet is still holding his hand, and doesn't even seem to notice what he is doing. 

“I’m sure,” he squeaks out. “Bye, boss.”

Bossuet kisses his palm and then folds it into a fist for Joly when he is frozen still. “Breakfast at the bakery tomorrow?”

“Do you even have to ask?” 

“Just making sure it's what you want,” Bossuet smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- St. John's wort is a mild antidepressant which you can purchase - at least in europe - without a prescription at just about any health store/drug store


	3. Three. "Greng-Jai"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for an account of violence. Not directly shown, but talked about.

Three. “Greng-Jai” (thai)

Definition :  _ the feeling of not wanting to impose _

* * *

**Friday, 8:29PM**

Bossuet is the first to wave a hand in greeting that Jehan reciprocates without thinking twice about it. “Had fun last night?” he asks, sincere as always, when Jehan makes their way over to him. For some reason, however, Jehan thinks - tonight - they detect a hint of unfamiliar cunning in those eyes. 

Why is Bossuet asking about last night, anyway? They didn’t do much besides sit at their window sill and stare at a wilting potted plant. Not the breadfruit, thank the deities, but one that was also precious to them. “Uneventful,” Jehan finally decides to share. That just about covers it. 

“Huh?” Bossuet’s entire face is full of confusion. “Did Joly cancel?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jehan nods. It’s not entirely unlikely that they simply forgot about having invited Joly over, but the more probable explanation is that they were unwittingly used as an alibi. Something is foul in the state of France, to be sure. “Said he was feeling under the weather - thought he might pass whatever it was on to me if he came over.”

Bossuet nods sagely. “He seemed off at breakfast, too.”

“Hm,” Jehan agrees. The aforementioned doctor-to-be hurries through the door so fast that his cane gets caught on the back of Jehan’s knee, nearly sending the both of them sprawling. 

“Sorry, Prouvaire, are you okay? Hi, Boss - oh. You guys talking about anything?”

Joly, as it happens, is the worst liar Jean Prouvaire has seen in their entire life. Doctors lie to their patients all the time, Jehan thinks. They have to be good at lying. Joly better get on that, and soon. 

“How uneventful my evening was after you canceled our plans at the last second,” Jehan says, refusing the impulse to add a wink merely to see Joly squirm for a bit longer. 

“Could have canceled breakfast too, if you weren’t feeling so well,” Bossuet’s face is open and soft in concern. He’s a better liar than Joly, but not by much. Bakers don’t have to lie habitually, so Jehan supposes that is acceptable. 

“Oh no, I’m always up for seeing you,” Joly laughs weakly. 

“Wow,” says Jehan, feeling a sharp pang of nothing in particular in their chest. 

“That did not come out the way I wanted it to.” Joly backtracks, putting a concerned hand on Jehan’s arm. “I am so sorry, let me invite myself to dinner at your place tomorrow to assure you of my love for you.”

“Monday,” Jehan decides. “I have plans tomorrow.”

Their ‘plans’ being that they’ll probably need a weekend to make it look like an actual human being lives in their apartment and not some murderous axe fiend on a killing spree. 

* * *

**Monday, 9:23AM**

“What brings you to me today Je, um, Je-Han? Am I saying it right?” She’s a perfectly lovely looking woman, if Jehan is being honest with themselves. Long blonde hair that would be the envy of any other middle-aged woman, elegantly knotted at the back of her head, kind blue eyes and an impressively pearly set of teeth to go along with it. 

“You almost got it,” Jehan assures her, distracted by the teeth and the hair and all the other observations. They hardly heard her speak. 

“Well,” she ducks her head, “Always room for improvement.”

“I suppose,” they agree, still not able to feel fully present in the moment. But where are they, if not in this tastefully decorated psychiatrist’s office? Where do they go, in their mind?

She simply sits across from Jehan for a long while, possibly waiting for something to go on. Minutes pass until it seems she gives up the game: “What brings you to see me today?”

That’s just the question, isn’t it? If Jehan knew what their issue was, they wouldn’t have to wreck their head over it. “I’m angry,” they finally settle on. That much is easy to figure out. They’ve been able to identify anger since they were in kindergarten, at the very least. Unfortunately, the problem does not stop there. 

“Angry at what, exactly?”

“Everything,” Jehan claims immediately, then corrects: “Not everything. Some days it feels like it could be everything, though.”

“Can you give me some examples?”

“Yeah,” they say. That’s easy. “Deforestation. Inequality. Capitalism. Climate change. The prison industrial complex. Heteronormativity.”

They stare at the slightly confused looking therapist. “You want more concrete examples? I have those too: someone spat on me in the metro last week because I wore a skirt. My black friend Combeferre was accused of loitering when he was waiting outside of the law firm Courfeyrac interned for last year. Jeff Bezoz has one hundred forty billion dollars.”

“Do you want to act on that anger?”

“Yes.” 

Does she have to report that to the police? Might have been good to check beforehand, but what does Jehan care, at this point? 

“Have you, before?”

“No.”

“Do you know why you didn’t?”

“Expectations,” they sigh, unsure how best to describe it but aware that they aren’t exactly offering the poor lady much to go off of. “I don’t look like the type of person to start a fight, do I?”

“Well, no,” she responds, slightly amused. “Whose expectations are you bowing to, do you think?”

“My friends’?”

Jehan isn’t sure. They aren’t sure of anything, at present. That is what the therapist is supposed to be there for. 

“What do you think your friends expect from you?”

“A therapist, most of the time,” they grit out. “That’s all I seem to be good for in their minds. Whimsical, soft little Prouvaire that is there to comfort anyone whenever they need it. Then again, I sometimes wonder if I am being too harsh. Maybe it just seems that way to me?”

“That does not sound very fair,” she comments. “Who comforts you when you need it?”

Jehan furrows their brow. “No one.” Too hasty, that answer isn’t true. They amend: “Courfeyrac tries. But I don’t let him.”

They’re sure all of their friends would offer comfort if Prouvaire gave the impression that they needed it. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t want Courfeyrac to know.”

“That you’re angry?”

Jehan nods, getting lost in the movement for a few beats before they realize they are still expected to answer verbally. “It would worry him. It would worry the others too. I don’t want them to worry, they’re my friends.”

“So because you feel they expect it of you, you ‘play therapist’, as you described it? You do not feel it comes naturally to you? Have you considered taking a step back, trying a different approach to their friendship?”

“Mhm,” Jehan nods. “I want to be there for them. But I’ve realized that I do need to talk about it, the anger. Even if I don’t understand it. Can’t talk about it to them, though. I need a grand-therapist.”

This makes the woman chuckle, slightly. 

“You seem to me to have a good grasp on what bothers you.”

“No, I don’t,” they scoff. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“Have you considered finding a different outlet for your anger?”

Jehan has not. 

“I’m not letting my anger out anywhere, at present.”

“Let me be frank with you, Je-han. You sound like you’re angry at your friends for not noticing that you’re angry at the world. Who is that anger going to hit when it forces its way out?”

They can’t truthfully give her an answer.

“Maybe try something where you can ensure nobody gets seriously hurt? A martial art, boxing, wrestling?”

“I’ll take that under consideration. Can I come back for another session next week?”

* * *

**Monday, 6:57PM**

Joly looks hectic when he appears on Jehan’s doorstep. “Shall I cook us something?” Jehan asks, just to be polite. In truth, they aren’t much in the mood for anything involving effort. 

“That’s very gallant of you,” Joly waves them off, “But after our last kitchen incident together I feel it’d be best if we were to leave the cooking to me.”

Jehan frowns. 

“Sorry,” Joly adds, making that same face he made at the Corinthe on Friday. He’s out of it, Jehan remembers. Something is bothering Joly so much that he keeps inadvertently saying things he doesn’t mean. What could that be? 

Then again, he is right. When Jehan experiments in the kitchen there is always a risk involved. They never learned to cook at home, after all. 

“No complaints from me,” Jehan assures him, then turns around to let Joly inside. 

Joly serves up a wonderful dinner of vegetables with rice - halfway through cooking the both of them realized that neither considered that they might need groceries - and a weird sort of mug cake that tastes much better than it looks. 

“Do you think I should go boxing with Bahorel?”

Joly giggles. “How’s your blood clotting? Like, do you bruise easily?”

“I don’t know,” Jehan frowns. They had been bruised, after the Corinth-- “I’ve hardly ever noticed bruises; they’d probably show up on my pasty skin immediately, though.” 

But even those with excellent blood clotting would have bruised, then, after the Corinth. When Jehan runs into a table corner, there are usually no bruises to show for it. 

“Never actively tried to provoke bruises,” they finally shrug. 

“Who does?”

“Many people,” Jehan assures him, distractedly, thinking of the various colors that had turned his skin into a canvas over weeks and weeks. “Whole communities of fetishists--”

“Ah, nope,” Joly shakes his head determinedly. “Not touching that. Anyway, why not? Boxing’s fun if you don’t care about brain damage.”

“Is Bahorel brain-damaged?” Jehan wonders, getting up for tea. 

“Bahorel came out of the womb brain damaged,” Joly snorts. “He lacks any sort of restraint. Like, what is up with his amygdala? Would make a good thesis, have you asked about studying him?”

There is a treasure trove of jokes to be passed between medical and psychology students. Jehan appreciates Joly’s effort. 

“I don’t think I should play therapist to my friends,” Jehan says, at last. 

“No shit,” Joly laughs. “The mind of Bahorel is one to enjoy with caution - you’ll have enough fucked up stuff to deal with once you’re done with your studies.”

Jehan is about to dismiss the whole thing, glad to have found some back-up in their plans to desist in offering to lend an ear to anyone, anytime. 

“Why do you wanna take up boxing?”

“Um.” Jehan tries to come up with an answer that won’t cause concern. They picked the wrong friend to ask this, they realize. Joly is Concern personified. “Self-defense?”

Wrong answer, no, that was definitely the wrong answer. Joly’s eyes go wide as saucers, he sits up much straighter. 

“Did something happen? Do you think you’re being followed again? Have you noticed anyone--”

“Nothing but the usual,” Jehan claims. Though by now it has become rather routine to constantly feel this way. “Just life.”

“I hate the world sometimes when I hear that stuff,” Joly sighs, slumping back into the couch, frowning and digging behind his back for some trinket that Jehan must have left there. He sets it carefully on the windowsill and sinks deeper. 

“Me too.” Jehan hesitates long enough for it to be glaringly obvious before he asks: “Does it make you angry?”

“Huh?” Joly adjusts his glasses, blinking up at him. “No, usually just makes me feel very defeated. Like I can’t change anything no matter how hard I try.”

“How do you combat that?”

“Big dose of Enjolras usually does the trick,” Joly replies. “I used to facetime him and pretend to want to know something about the American medical system.”

Jehan doesn’t think that’ll help them. 

“I get angry,” they hazard, only glancing at Joly, then resolutely staring at a plant just to Joly’s left. “So angry that I feel like my life would be better served if I assassinated everyone with a yearly income over a million.”

Joly smiles, nudges their foot and reaches upwards to take the cup Jehan prepared but still hasn’t handed over. “You wouldn’t. You’re more of a Desmoulins than a Lenin”

“Right,” Jehan nods. “I probably wouldn’t.”

“So, like,” Joly shuffles on the couch to look them fully in the eye, no longer content with sidelong glances. “What happens when you get angry?”

Ah, fuck. 

“Nothing, really,” Jehan is sick of lying. “Same as you. Feel powerless. Cry a lot. Then I get angry again. Sorry, don’t want to talk about it with you.”

“We can talk about something else,” Joly shrugs, patting the couch pillow next to him invitingly. “The doctor I went to see last week told me to see a therapist. I think he thought I was tricking myself into asthma attacks.”

“Whack.”

“Right?”

“Are you going to go see a therapist?”

“Nah,” Joly shakes his head. “I happen to know what’s wrong with me, and a therapist can’t change the fact that neither Bossuet nor Musichetta is in love with me.”

“Come again?”

“I said that out loud,” Joly realizes, acceptance swiftly replacing horror. “Well, it’s out now. Surprise. I’m a shitty best friend, don’t you know?”

Normally, Jehan would delve deep into that, would ask Joly to elaborate, would offer comfort. But they’re trying something new this week. “Do you mind if I make that travesty into a poem?”

Joly bursts into laughter. 

“If you don’t read it to an assembly of our friends, sure. At least one of us should benefit from my suffering.”

* * *

**Tuesday, 12:45PM**

The house is acceptable, Jehan supposes. Feuilly and Bahorel have already gotten a fair amount of work done, if the pictures sent via their group chat are any indication, and it shows. 

“You can’t go to most of the top floor right now, sorry.” Pontmercy truly sounds it, for some reason. “Feuilly and Bahorel took out the floor yesterday.”

“Where are those two hiding, anyway?”

“Oh, Bahorel wanted to try this weird place where you can try the world’s spiciest chili.”

“Laudable. Not in the mood to join them?”

“Oh no,” Pontmercy laughs nervously. “I can’t do spicy food. Courfeyrac tells me I’m too white.”

Jehan might have said the same, it was already on the tip of their tongue, after years of similar banter in their friend group. It’s usually Enjolras who bears the brunt of the White People jokes, though if Courfeyrac is to be believed, Enjolras spent his semesters abroad studiously developing a tolerance. 

“And anyway,” Pontmercy starts again, glancing at a wristwatch that appears rather anachronistic. “I’m meeting someone soon.”

“Someone important?” 

“Yes,” Pontmercy chuckles. “Very. Uh, to me, at least. Um - do you, uh, have any other questions? About the house, I mean? Not about who I am meeting, of course.”

“What’s that staircase?” Jehan foregoes any further inquiries about this odd meeting that seems to have Pontmercy so flustered. They aren’t up for smalltalk at the moment anyway. Besides, they really don’t know Pontmercy so well as that. 

“There’s a tower room up there, I think,” Pontmercy recalls. “That’s what the plans for the house say, anyway. I haven’t been up.”

“Interesting,” Jehan pushes the door open, delighting in the ear-piercing shriek it produces.

* * *

**Wednesday, 7:54AM**

“I hate 8AM classes, I hate them, I  _ hate them _ ,” Grantaire chants, catching up to Jehan after they’ve not waited for him to finish haggling with some random street vendor. 

“It’s a beautiful morning,” Jehan manages a smile for their friend, in such trying times. 

“Why did I take this class? Why did you convince me to take this class? Why did I ask you to talk to our teacher and convince him to let me join the class again, why why _ why _ ?”

“You weren’t suffering enough for your art, you said,” Jehan shrugs. 

“This is suffering beyond my capabilities.” Grantaire groans, with more drama than Jehan feels is appropriate at this hour of the day. “Fuck what Bossuet says, the good Lord gives me much more than I can handle.” 

“We’re going to be late now, because of your tantrum,” Jehan pouts. “I already have seven tardies. Gros will skin me.”

“Those are the words of someone not willing to suffer 8AM classes for art either,” Grantaire points a very accusing finger at them. 

“That is unproductive suffering,” they dismiss, “Can I help it when inspiration strikes on the way to class?”

“No, no,” Grantaire assures them. “We must do what we can with what we are given. No one understands better than me.”

Grantaire is still courteous enough to hold open the door to the building for them with an exaggerated bow, but pushes Jehan to the side rather rudely before swaggering into the actual classroom as though he has every right to arrive at this hour.

“Grantaire,” the professor’s haughty voice singles him out the second he hears that characteristic shuffle of feet. “Given your long absence from our halls, one might be inclined to forgive you for confusing sin tempore and cum tempore.”

“Good of you, Sir,” Grantaire’s smile is painfully insincere. Jehan can observe it easily from their position. Before Grantaire fucked off to Brazil for a year, Jehan remembered that Gros had a special sort of fondness for him, the kind one might otherwise reserve for a cat that hisses as you try to feed it. That still seems to be the case. Jehan supposes they understand that; Grantaire - much like the cat they just likened him too - draws people in, if only to then make them despair of him. 

“But as I recall reading a rather facetious essay in flawless Latin from you some years ago,” Gros continues, grinning sardonically, delighted to have gotten the upper hand, to have dealt the victorious card in the deck to himself, “I don’t think you can claim ignorance in this case. Can you tell me what time it is?”

“Early morning from the looks of it, Sir.” 

Grantaire winks at Jehan, over his shoulder. Jehan should have known he didn’t pick this fight for the hell of it - it's much too early in the day for that, his wittiness is only just waking up. Now Grantaire’s smile is conspiratorial, he looks as though he is dearly trying not to laugh while Gros continues on his tirade. 

By the time the professor has finished dressing Grantaire down, who now affects a very innocent, chastened look, Jehan has found their seat unnoticed. 

* * *

**Wednesday, 12:00PM**

Grantaire, contrary to popular belief, isn’t just talkative when he’s had one too many. Having now suitably woken up, it’s also impossible for him to keep quiet when he’s eating, thus treating Jehan to an unasked for demonstration of a fully functional jaw. Sometimes, Jehan thinks that he does it on purpose, that he enjoys torturing people too polite to point out his disgusting behavior. 

Jehan, however, is no such person. 

“Shut your damn mouth when you’re chewing,” they snap. Grantaire laughs, cheeks stuffed full, throwing a fry towards Jehan and hitting their left eyebrow. It remains uncertain if that was the intended target. Perhaps he expected Jehan to try and catch it in their mouth like a dog. “You owe me, anyway, you can take my terrible eating habits for a while.”

“Pray tell, what do I owe you for, Grantaire?”

“For pissing off Gros so that you wouldn’t get another tardy,” Grantaire grins, exposing potato-adjacent mash as well as his teeth. “He expects me in his office after classes end for the day, and I don’t think I’ll get the nice kind of spanking from him.”

Well, you never know with Gros and Grantaire, really, but Jehan doesn’t make their thoughts public knowledge. 

“You’re the reason we were late,” they scoff instead. 

“Semantics.”

“No talking until you’ve swallowed,” Jehan orders, attempting to appear imposing. They don’t think it works all that well, because Grantaire’s grin merely cranks up about two more levels on the complacency lever. 

“Make me,” Grantaire snorts, beginning to chew even more obnoxiously. Without pausing to think about it, Jehan’s foot surges out and finds, with impressive impact, against Grantaire’s knee. One half-chewed fry falls out of Grantaire’s mouth. A few seconds later: “Ouch, what the fuck, Jehan?”

Jehan unfreezes. “I’m sorry,” they stammer. 

“Doesn’t feel like you are,” Grantaire pouts. “Jesus Christ, that hurt.” 

“Don’t be such a baby, you’re only pouting now to get more of my fries.” Jehan frowns. “I’m sure Bahorel bruises you much harder.”

“Yeah, but I expect it from Bahorel--”

And those few words do it. There comes the deluge.

“Why the fuck does everybody look at me like I’m some delicate little flower, huh? What did I do to get that label stuck on me? Why do you all treat me like I’m your personal therapist slash manic pixie dream girl?”

Grantaire gapes a while longer, knee still drawn up so that he can massage it. He clears his throat, extensively. “Well, that’s a lot to unpack, Prouvaire, but let’s start with what I actually meant: namely that Bahorel and I put on gloves and have a referee that tells us when we can start expecting a pounding.” 

Right. Of course that’s what he meant. 

Jehan should have known. 

“Are we gucci on that?” Grantaire looks them firmly in the eye. “Fantastic. Then let's move on to whatever just came out of your mouth. You alright?”

No. 

“I’m fucking  _ angry _ . I want to punch something.”

“Not an uncommon reaction to my face, I’m told, but, um, really? Because I ate with my mouth open?”

“It’s not that,” Jehan frowns. “There’s---Is there something wrong with me?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Hard to tell when you’re on the outside looking in, isn’t it?”

“I feel like there is,” Jehan looks Grantaire straight in the eyes when they admit to it, to judge his reaction. 

“You’d know better than me, mate,” Grantaire’s voice has gone softer. “Thought about seeing someone yet?”

“I did.” 

This earns Jehan merely a very expectant look from Grantaire. They should have known that  _ now _ he would demonstrate a hitherto unknown capacity to keep quiet and listen. 

“She suggested I take up boxing.”

Now a smile comes over Grantaire’s face. 

“Well, if you swing for Bahorel as eagerly as you did for my kneecaps, he’ll be in for quite a surprise on Saturday.”

* * *

**Friday, 5:02PM**

“That’s it, I think,” Courfeyrac wipes sweat from his brow, where his curls are already drenched. “The five-hundreth plant, your Grace.”

“Thank you for helping me,” Jehan smiles. They really got a lot more done than they thought they would - all of Jehan’s stuff is now in the tower room. They moved in here against Feuilly’s counsel, but the old apartment needed to go, simply put. It is as much a fresh start as one can ask for, Jehan supposes. “Something on your mind?” They ask, when Courfeyrac does not simply retreat from the room but instead stares at their new breadfruit, with no apparent intention of stopping. 

“Huh?” Courfeyrac’s brows knit together. “Ya, lots. Work stuff, Combeferre stuff, the usual.”

“What’s wrong with Combeferre?” They’ve never known Courfeyrac to be in a tiff because of him before. 

“Are you in the right headspace to receive information that could possibly be on your mind for a while?”

“Aren’t I always, love?”

“No,” Courfeyrac laughs. “You aren’t. That’s okay, by the way, in case you weren’t aware or didn’t want to believe it.”

Courfeyrac has caught them out. Crap. 

“Did Joly say something?”

Worse - did Grantaire?

“Does Joly have reason to say something?”

“Don’t cross-examine me,” Jehan threatens. “I already kicked one friend to dust this week.”

“I think Combeferre doesn’t want to apply for the research post in Algeria for stupid, stupid reasons.”

“That’s not good,” Prouvaire knows that much. Combeferre talked everyone’s ear off about it - that is, everyone that made the mistake of asking him what the post entailed. “The reason being you? Feeling a bit self-involved, love?”

“He was beyond excited for it, we all knew that. Then Louise dumped me and suddenly all he does is frown or clear his throat very loudly whenever I bring it up.”

Jehan pats Courfeyrac on the shoulder, too exhausted to sit their friend down for a proper talk about what exactly has been building between those two since Pre-K. In any case, Jehan is fairly certain it surpasses their abilities: they only met Combeferre in university, and Courfeyrac promptly thereafter.

* * *

**Saturday, 9:54AM**

Bahorel has only just flopped onto the mat, panting like something out of a pay-per-view film, when his phone buzzes. “That’ll be Feuilly.” Grantaire makes a vaguely annoyed face, then attempts to hustle Jehan towards the changing rooms. For the greater good, he claims. “I’ll keep a lookout for you while you shower,” he pats Jehan’s indeed very sweaty back, while they remain confused. 

“I like Feuilly,” they say as the water warms up to the scalding temperature they prefer. 

“Feuilly is great, we love Feuilly,” Grantaire agrees. “We dislike that Bahorel takes forever on the phone with him.”

“Is that all we dislike?” They cannot resist probing. Grantaire pauses. 

“There are no faults to be found with Feuilly. I’m just a bitchy tosser who can’t be happy for his friends when it slightly inconveniences him.”

Jehan has no idea what Grantaire means. Thankfully, one almost never has to pry when it comes to Grantaire’s inconveniences - the minor ones, at least. Deity knows, they damn near needed a crowbar to deal with the serious meltdowns. “Feuilly and Enjolras have been spending a lot of time together, recently. Meanwhile he’s known I’m back for, oh, two weeks at least now, and he hasn’t as much as made a peep in my direction. Not that I expected anything else, mind--”

“How are you still this hung up on someone you haven’t seen in three years?” 

Jehan turns the water off, grabs their towel, faces Grantaire.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You’ve met Enjolras, yes?”

“I love our leader as much as the next guy, provided I’m not standing next to you, but--”

“You two wank stains about ready to go?” Bahorel comes strolling into the locker rooms, burping loudly and in the process of trying to untangle his hair. Grantaire throws his wet towel directly onto Bahorel’s face. 

“Hit the showers, douchebag. You’re my ride.”

Bahorel takes a deep sniff of Grantaire’s towel, throws it over his shoulder. Jehan vows to themselves that they won’t make any inquiries as to those two actually sharing a towel. Unfortunately, Bahorel notices their disgust and begins to explain. “Forgot my towel. Going straight to Feuilly’s after I drop off R - gotta smell nice or he’ll complain I’m spoiling his couch.”

“Last week you said Feuilly enjoyed your musk.”

Ew. 

“Last week,” Bahorel parrots, “I didn’t  _ want  _ to shower.” 

He then rather unceremoniously proceeds to drop trou, and the next thing Jehan hears is over the spray of the showers: “Prouvaire, are you joining again next week?”

Grantaire glances at them, eyebrows raised expectantly. This way, he could almost be construed as to look encouraging.

“We’ll see.”

“I had them fully convinced before you came in here with your douchey post-workout self,” Grantaire yells back - a lie that is surely being drowned out by the crescendo of off-key singing coming from the gathering steam.

Jehan thinks that, barring further disgusting towel incidents, coming back sounds rather lovely.

* * *

**Monday, 9:23AM**

“There was an incident I neglected to mention last week,” Jehan starts off the session, finally. After greeting them, the lovely therapist asked if there was anything they wanted to share. It’s taken Jehan several minutes to come up with appropriate phrasing. “One that made me angry.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

“There was--” they falter, despite knowing what to say in their head. “I was involved in a protest against tearing down a poorer residential block to make way for a shopping center, a couple of months ago. You may have read about it in the papers, there were-- some injuries.”

“Were you injured?”

“Not directly at the protest, my friend pushed me to the side and got his arm broken for it,” Jehan recalls. “But on the way home, I got jumped.”

“Were you alone?” 

“Yes,” they confirm. “I’d just said goodbye to the last friend around the corner - just a few feet from my apartment.” 

“What happened then?”

“Oh, they fired a warning shot - I don’t think they truly wanted to kill me. Then they kicked me a couple of times and told us to lay off the protests. My - I have friends who study law. The men who attacked me are in prison. I’m not scared of them.”

“Did you fight back?”

“I couldn’t. There were three of them.”

“Why do you think they picked you?”

“Suppose they thought me the weakest link. Thought they would break me first and then, if necessary, take on someone more dangerous.”

“Does that frustrate you?” 

“They were right,” Jehan admits. “That is very frustrating to me, yes. I am the weakest link. Or, was.”

“Jehan…”

“Well, weren’t they?”Jehan has to wonder. It’s been a question they have put to themselves over and over again, these past months. “It worked, after all. My friends refused to continue the protests.”

“Your life was at risk.”

“Is my life somehow worth more than a whole block being put on the street?”

“You cannot measure the worth of a human life.”

“I would have given mine,” they admit. There are tears now, unbidden and overwhelming. “I would have risked that. Do you know one of the houses getting torn down is a shelter for abused women? It’s operated out of there for over a hundred years - how will they rebuild? Where? All those people are out on the street now. Of course they weren’t given compensation - that all goes to the landlords. They have no one now.”

Jehan pauses, they shake with tears yet to come. “And so now I’m always angry.”

The therapist looks much too concerned for Jehan not to add: “But I’m trying not to be.”

Boxing did help a little bit, after all. 


	4. Four. “Nunchi”

Four. “Nunchi” (japanese)

Definition : _the ability to correctly interpret another person’s mood._

* * *

**Monday, 8:43AM**

Feuilly usually checks his mailbox when he comes home from work, precisely because he dislikes having one unexpected bill ruin his entire day. To be completely fair to the ruinous object in question, today it was not, in fact, a bill. The nigh unmentionable letter is folded in his back pocket, slithering its way into his awareness periodically, almost like a particularly deft pebble in his shoe. Given the choice, Feuilly would pick the pebble any day. 

“Alright there?” A loud knock on the floorboards he is currently crawling around beneath, Bahorel’s booming voice to accompany it. Feuilly loses all conscious notice of the letter. “Didn’t choke on a dust mite, did you?”

He does not lose his underlying, turbulent emotions regarding it, however.

“I’m fine,” Feuilly presses out, hoping he doesn’t sound as irritated as he feels upon being torn from his thoughts. It’s no quarrel he has with Bahorel, anyway. He shouldn’t take it out on a concerned friend. The floorboards will serve much better for that. Speaking of - “ _ Nice _ job,” Bahorel laughs when one of them comes flying up, catching it with ease. “One down, only half a million more to go. Gonna be a long day for us, hey?”

“Nobody’s paying you to be here,” Feuilly huffs. It’s impossible to miss the way Bahorel’s face falls, even if it passes within a fraction of a second, picking itself up admirably. Decidedly, Bahorel leans on the mouldy floorboard, grins down at Feuilly. “I  _ want  _ to be here, if only for such quality entertainment. Nothing like watching you scrabble on your back like some Kafka protagonist.”

“I’m surprised you’ve read The Metamorphosis,” Feuilly grunts, kicking at the next board. It’s no easy feat to get it loose. “Honestly, fuck these 18th century craftsmen and their emphasis on durability.” This last part is uttered more to himself, he is not surprised when Bahorel ignores it. 

“Graduated high school, didn’t I? I read, sometimes. When it’s convenient to. And who said I meant The Metamorphosis? Is not the essence of Kafka’s characters that they all struggle?”

Someone’s in the mood to pick a fight. Feuilly is not that someone. Not today, anyway. 

“Don’t even start with me, you fucker,” Feuilly huffs. “Hand me that clawhammer, make yourself fucking useful.”

Again, Bahorel’s face falls, too briefly to fully elucidate why. Not like this is the first time he’s been in a shit mood around him. Feuilly kicks harder. Bahorel dances to the side, catches the board with one languidly outstretched arm; it’s enormous circumference is still enough to give pause. “Almost got you there,” Feuilly pants, grinning up at him. Okay, maybe it is Feuilly trying to pick a fight now. He’s not above admitting that.

“A lesser man might accuse you of aiming directly at me.”

“Well, my accuracy needs some work,” Feuilly snorts. “Head’s up, fuckface.”

This time, he does hit Bahorel, but the giant merely brushes it off. What he no longer brushes off is Feuilly’s general behavior. “You wanna tell me what’s going on, man? If you’re mad at me just fucking tell me how I messed up.”

Ah, there’s the reason Bahorel looked so hurt earlier. “No more irritation at you than baseline,” he assures him. Bahorel doesn’t want to push in, he knows. But now concern is written so clearly on his face that it is impossible to miss. He squats down low, getting closer to eye level with Feuilly than would be good for him if Feuilly were still kicking up a storm. Out of care for his friend, Feuilly thus decides to take a break. 

He’s off his game today - which is why the water bottle Bahorel throws him only hits him in the nose. “Fucker,” he groans. 

“You going to blame me for your lack of hand-eye-coordination, too?”

Feuilly looks away, training his anger at the dust. He has to push the mask up to have a drink, and promptly coughs when the particles hit him all at once. “Oh, that’s several lifetimes worth of decay,” he pulls a distasteful face, forgetting to answer. 

“Yeah, okay,” Bahorel gets up, patting his thighs. “You don’t wanna talk about what’s bothering you, that’s cool man, but don’t be such an ass about it. See you for brunch tomorrow, or whatever.”

Fuck. Feuilly lets himself drop back to the floor. After a while it’s easy to ignore the swirling clouds of dust he created by doing so. 

“Wait,” he calls after those thundering footsteps. They halt immediately, backtrack. “I got a letter today.”

Bahorel’s face reappears in his line of vision. Feuilly scrabbles around for the odious thing, holds it out. Several seconds later, Bahorel complains, “This is fucking Polish.What am I supposed to do with this? The only word I can read is  _ kurwa _ , and I can’t find it in here.”

“From my grandmother,” Feuilly tells Bahorel. “Which happens to explain why there is no kurwa to be found.”

Distantly, Feuilly always knew he must have living relatives - the people who ended up adopting him always said so, anyway. He just assumed that the reason he was put up for adoption was precisely because those Polish folks had no interest in being daily or even occasionally reminded of his general existence. 

“Oh, not necessarily - my grandma used to curse up a storm,” Bahorel laughs, but then swiftly sobers. “How on earth does an elderly Polish woman look up a French address?”

“Haven’t read it yet,” Feuilly chews on the inside of his cheek. To be quite frank, he isn't sure he will, at all. “But I presume she asked around at the adoption agency.”

Such a letter, Feuilly would have welcomed up until the tender age of twelve. A decade and a half later simply feels too late. And anyway, he’s well aware that if his grandmother asked around at the adoption agency, he might be in for a very painful reminder of a little letter on his id card he has not yet been able to get changed.

“That doesn’t sound very legal,” Bahorel frowns. “Says  _ wnuk _ though. That’s a good sign.”

Feuilly hadn’t realized. 

The form of address being ‘my grandson’, that is. But to be entirely fair to Bahorel, he also had not realized that his friend had continued to learn Polish past the assimilation of cuss words into his vernacular.

“Learned another fucking word, did you?”

“One or two,” Bahorel laughs, scratching his beard. “I’m still trying, from time to time. Are you gonna-”

“I don’t want to talk about the letter.”

“Was going to ask if you were gonna let me have a turn with the floorboards,” Bahorel reaches down to tug on his hair. Feuilly just about manages to slap his hands away. 

“No,” Feuilly decides, pulling the mask firmly back over his face. He needs the outlet more than Bahorel does. Considering how much time Bahorel spends at the gym, it’s a wonder he can still muster the energy to go around starting bar fights.

“Too bad you’re not actually my boss,” Bahorel decides, swinging down onto his back next to Feuilly, making the both of them cough by the sheer amount of dust propelled into the air around them. Feuilly is fairly certain his eyes water, and not because of Bahorel’s words, either. “Scoot over, dickface.”

* * *

**Monday, 12:09PM**

Bahorel has removed every layer of clothing save for a white tank top that has suffered greatly for its durability and basketball shorts that Feuilly suspects might be tear-aways. “Any plans tonight?” Bahorel asks after Feuilly has spent what must be minutes by now squinting to see if he can make out any buttons on the sides of the shorts, getting up to go and accept their food delivery and returning with a six pack of beer that definitely didn’t go on Feuilly’s bill. Bit early in the day, but what is ‘time’ to a man who makes his own hours?

“Not tonight, no,” Feuilly finally remembers that he still has an outstanding answer to give, “but Enjolras asked me to dinner tomorrow.”

“Not even back for a month and already putting the moves on you,” Bahorel teases. “Grew confident in the States, didn’t he? Not that he lacked confidence to begin with, mind.”

“You’re so awful about that crush,” Feuilly chuckles. “The poor guy was eighteen.”

“And I will never let him live it down.”

“I wish you would.” He reaches for one of the bottles, but Bahorel slaps his hand away. Close to protest, he is cut off. 

“Don’t, you’ll ruin your teeth before you’re thirty,” Bahorel pulls the bottle opener from his back pocket. “Allow me.”

“Was going to use the floorboards, just so you know,” Feuilly burps, leans back, arms crossed comfortably behind his head. “Enough of those around to open a truck full of bottles.

“Just say thank you,” Bahorel rolls his eyes. 

“You know what? I don’t think I will.”

Bahorel pauses to scoff. “More beer for me then.”

“Fork it over, asshole,” Feuilly kicks at his hip, deliberately gentle. He doesn’t want Bahorel getting any more ideas.

“Only because I like you so much,” Bahorel finally decides. “Or because you’re having a bad day or whatever.” 

“That entitles me to the larger share of the food as well, I hope?”

“In your dreams,” Bahorel snorts, but when he hands Feuilly his bag, it's full of stuff he doesn’t remember ordering, things he likes but generally considers rare indulgences. He furrows his brows, ready to prop himself up and ask what the fuck Bahorel is playing at, but his best friend is busy drinking and pointedly looking at the windows they still have to do at some point. 

“Bahorel, what--”

“Eat your fucking food, dumbass,” Bahorel grumbles, taking another deep swig before glancing at him, sideways, all too briefly for Feuilly to make out the look on his face. Last week, Feuilly let it slide. He had eaten the chili without breaking into tears, after all. That warranted being invited to lunch, he agreed with Bahorel there. Feuilly will not feel guilty for allowing this - he will simply have to find a way to invite Bahorel to lunch without making it weird.

  
  


“Alright,” Feuilly finally placates, worried that Bahorel is about to start twitching nervously if he doesn’t. “You’ll give yourself an aneurysm staring at all the stuff we still have to do.” 

“I don’t have anything to do tonight, either,” Bahorel says once Feuilly has started eating, because of course he doesn’t. 

“Do you ever?” His mouth is still full, here his mind was too quick to form a retort. Thankfully, Bahorel’s grasp on eating etiquette is far from firm. He gets a shove for that. “Just say you wanna get plastered, man,” Feuilly laughs, shoving back harder. “You know I’m down.”

“Always down for my stupid ideas,” Bahorel grins. “A true comrade. A beacon of solidarity, no wonder Enjolras is so in love with--” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t overdo it,” Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Or I’ll rethink and spend the evening with Enjolras instead.”

“You wound me,” Bahorel clutches his chest.

“You deserve it, sometimes,” Feuilly laughs, has a sip, glancing at Bahorel, relieved to see his grin mirrored, fully intact and genuine. 

“ _ You deserve it _ ,” Bahorel mocks his words. “Just like when we were little, eh?”

“Not  _ just _ like it,” Feuilly grumbles. It’s better now. Has been much better since he left home. 

“Pretty much like it,” Bahorel shrugs. “You kicked my ass then and you kick it just the same now. Doesn’t matter if you do it in a skirt or pants, big man.” 

So that Feuilly doesn’t do something entirely embarrassing like blush, he clears his throat and gets up. “You going to sit around all fucking day or actually going to help me get the floor done?”

* * *

**Monday, 7:20PM**

“--It’s a fantastic opportunity, Ferre, I don’t know why you’re suddenly so hesitant,” Courfeyrac’s voice intercuts Bahorel’s monologue on the virtues of whatever beer he ordered for the two of them earlier over Feuilly’s go-to brand. The finer points of craft beer are above Feuilly’s comprehension, but he is content to listen to Bahorel, because when he monologues his voice is much calmer, softer than usual. It also means that Feuilly doesn’t have to talk beyond the occasional grunt, which suits him well at the moment. 

He suspects Bahorel knows that, but Feuilly feels like he would literally rather die than address how well they’ve come to know one another.

“I told you, it’s a big step,” Combeferre hedges, leading Feuilly and Bahorel to exchange glances. Bahorel mouths something at him, forgetting that he has a mask on. “I’m not saying I won’t apply, I just need to get my affairs straight before.”

“Any current gay affairs I should know about?” Courfeyrac snorts. 

“Going for the low-hanging fruit as always, I see,” Bahorel calls out, drawing their attention. 

“Told you they were still here,” Combeferre’s voice sounds smug. “Feuilly always cleans up after himself before he goes - even at parties.” 

“Getting cozy down there, aren’t we?” Courfeyrac’s face appears from above the edge of the floorboards, seconds before his features contort grotesquely. “Jesus Christ, tell me you guys have a canary with you, or something.” 

After Feuilly directs them upstairs, they disappear swiftly, not having taken very long at all to pick out their respective rooms. Bahorel watches them go down the picturesque steps to the street, waves at them and pulls Feuilly close like they’re parents seeing their children off to prom. He certainly calls the appropriate amount of embarrassing reminders after them.

“Any chance you wanna amend your bet?”

“No,” Feuilly snorts. “You can let go of me now, they’re around the corner.”

“Don’t feel like going to Algeria might hamper their development?”

“If their actual relationships didn’t, distance won’t either,” Feuilly dismisses. “My money is still on ‘in their good time’. You sound like you’re unsure about your placement though. Deadline coming up?”

“I’m about to lose,” Bahorel complains, stepping away from Feuilly. “To fucking Bossuet, of all people. He’s in the lead.”

“How exactly can someone be in the lead with one bet?”

“You think we’re talking about one singular bet?”

“How many bets do you have going on?” Addendum: Does Feuilly truly want to know how much money Bahorel can simply afford to toss around? Would it make him feel better or worse about letting Bahorel pay for his food, on occasion? Should he start making bets he knows he cannot lose in the name of free lunch? No, his adoptive parents always considered gambling a vice, and so shaped Feuilly’s own views on it. And then there is the matter of what gambling does to society’s downtrodden, and anyway---

“Right at this moment?” Bahorel asks, scratching his neck. “Could be seven. Could be forty-seven.”

“I see,” Feuilly huffs. 

“Just because you’re too noble to partake in gambling.”

“I like to let my friends sort their shit out on their own,” he protests. 

“They’d sort it out quicker with a good shove in the right direction,” Bahorel huffs. “Mark my words. I mean, shit, wouldn’t you want to know?”

“Hm?” Feuilly looks over his shoulder, mind already back on the floorboards, finding himself drawn back into the conversation more or less against his will.

“If you loved someone like Combeferre loves Courfeyrac, wouldn’t you want to know how they feel about you? Otherwise, how can you be sure it’s reciprocated?”

“You can’t,” Feuilly sighs. This hits just a little bit too close to home. Sometimes he wonders if Bahorel knows, if this is Bahorel’s way to indicate that he should make a move. But that notion is ridiculous - Bahorel has a long history of serial monogamy with a short parade of women. 

Feuilly can’t stop thinking about Bahorel's words, however. He tries to distract himself with the putting away of floorboards into the truck, but when he turns, Bahorel is right in his space, looking at him oddly, squinting as though he is trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. 

So he asks, unable to resist, “Would you want to know?” 

“What?” Bahorel’s voice is weird. It shouldn’t be this quiet, this hesitant. 

“Would you want to know if someone loved you?”

“I’d be open to hearing about it,” Bahorel tells him, eyes still more intense than Feuilly is used to. That might be the beer speaking, in fact. 

“Anyone in particular you’d want to know from?” Right on time, the beer responds out of Feuilly. 

Bahorel pulls an even more peculiar face - shrugs, clears his throat, acts all suspect. “Nah,” he says. “There’s this guy who has been eyeing me up a lot recently, though. Did I tell you?”

“Guy?” Feuilly asks, eyebrow raised. 

Bahorel nods, takes a long swig of beer after he has maneuvered his floorboard around Feuilly into the truck. “Never mentioned him?”

“You’ve  _ never _ mentioned a guy to me. You’ve never been with guys--”

“I went to boarding school, mate,” Bahorel elbows him in the ribs, a little. “Come on. I’ve macked on a few of my homies before.”

“So this guy--” Feuilly stops him before he trots out the particulars. “You could see yourself liking a guy? Like, genuinely?”

“I’m ready for something with any gender as long as they’re willing to get shredded with me - need to vibe with my partner, you feel?”

Feuilly does feel a lot. He shares none of it, opting only to nod, sagely. 

Much later, they’re tired and just decide to crash on the upper floor of the house. “Probably shouldn’t, with all the paint fumes,” Feuilly has the wherewithal to caution. Bahorel yawns back something about windows not being done anyway. They find a room that Bahorel then promptly reserves as his, doodling his name in very ugly sharpie scrawl on the door. It's got a shared bathroom with the one next to it, the one Feuilly thinks he might pick for himself once it’s done. Bahorel spreads his large ass coat on the floor, pulling Feuilly down with him. Before they’re about to pass out, he fishes for Feuilly’s face, blindly. “Don’t forget to take your binder off, man.”

Yes, Feuilly feels a lot. 

* * *

**Tuesday, 6:02AM**

Feuilly wakes up with the hulking, giant form of Bahorel nearly cutting off his air supply. It’s still barely light outside. Half of his reason for waking up at this time, he supposes, is the years of routine retail shifts that forced his body to adjust. The other half is that Bahorel’s snores are happening in direct proximity of his left ear. Yeah, that’d wake the dead. 

Shuffling out from beneath Bahorel does nothing to stir him, as per usual, so Feuilly decides to hurry down to the kitchen and try if coffee will succeed where shaking has failed. Should he take Bahorel’s pulse? 

Half a beat later, Feuilly berates himself for thinking that someone snoring that loudly might not have a pulse. 

He then proceeds to jump out of his own skin when he finds Prouvaire sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, poking at what looks like a newly purchased plant. Whatever hoodie they are wearing probably does not belong to them, it is more of a muted statement piece that is very much at odds with their usual fashionable presentation. Well, Bahorel calls it fashionable. Feuilly calls it ‘creative’, when he is feeling generous. 

“Good morning,” Prouvaire nods at him, face looking more serene than Feuilly has seen it in recent memory. They notice Feuilly contemplating the hoodie, but only offer a lopsided smile as explanation. And anyway, there are more important questions to be asked. 

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I live here.” Prouvaire blinks a couple of times, adds: “Courfeyrac helped me move in on Friday.”

“I told you your room wasn’t ready yet,” Feuilly gapes. “Was going to do it this weekend, all nice and green, and then surprise you on--”

He stops himself rather quickly, suddenly embarrassed. But it is nice to see Prouvaire smile once more, truly. 

“I think I like the vibe of decay it has going on.”

“Don’t tell Joly that,” Feuilly snorts. “Seriously though, that’s a fucking safety hazard, my friend. Are you doing anything today?”

“Suffering in the name of art, maybe,” Prouvaire scrunches up their nose. “Not sure if I’m up for that, though. Today I think I wanna feel good.”

“Then allow me to do your room? I’ll let you help, even.”

“If you must,” Prouvaire sighs. “But then you must also suffer me making you coffee.” 

That’s a deal Feuilly isn’t going to say no to. Though Prouvaire’s cooking is to be enjoyed with caution, their coffee - and general affinity for all things drinkable - is to die for. When, a few minutes later, they hand Feuilly two cups, his brows knit together. 

“What, did you think I thought you were just starting your work super early today? You’re very industrious, but six is a little early, even by your standards. Tell Bahorel I’d like to go to the gym with him and Grantaire after class tomorrow, when you do manage to wake him.”

“Alright, cheers,” Feuilly raises both cups, making as if to disappear back up the stairs, because he is barefooted right now and the floor is pretty damn cold. But Prouvaire seems to have further conversation in mind. 

“Do you know why I like you so much, Feuilly?”

“No blessed clue,” Feuilly responds. “Luck of the Irish? Do you perchance believe in that?”

Another half-smile from Prouvaire. “You’re one of my few very non-dramatic friends. it makes you very pleasant to be around.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t go changing that now,” Prouvaire commands. 

“I’ll try my best not to,” Feuilly agrees, unsure what they mean. 

* * *

**Tuesday, 6:14PM**

Enjolras slides into the seat across from him, looking almost frantic with his hair done up all hap-hazardly, stray curls probably impairing his vision. That reminds Feuilly, he should ask Bahorel to give him a trim soon, lest his own curls start getting ideas. “I’m late.”

“Only five minutes,” Feuilly smiles. “That’s not so bad.”

“You’re used to abysmal timing from Bahorel,” Enjolras snorts. “I would know - last week I spent forty-five minutes waiting for him at the bus stop.”

“Did you have a book with you, at least?”

Enjolras looks up from where he is rummaging in his messenger bag, finally setting it down next to himself. He nods, “Still The Jungle. I’m rereading.”

“I expect it’ll have many new annotations when I finally get it back?” Feuilly muses. Now Enjolras looks almost embarrassed. 

“You made good points, I wanted to reciprocate--”

“Oh, don’t worry about it man, it’ll make for good reading. I look forward to it. Can I take that to mean you liked it?”

“I already ordered another book of his,” Enjolras admits. “He strikes me as a very interesting man, though it surprised me that none of my American friends knew of him.”

It’s very easy to get to talking with Enjolras, Feuilly has noted with relief these past few weeks. Good thing too, because he’s the only one in their friend group that shares Feuilly’s taste in fiction. Sure, he’s all for debating the - as Grantaire in all likelihood correctly pointed out as questionable - merits of Rousseau every now and then, but non-fiction gets exhausting, and fast. Not that Grantaire and Enjolras leave anyone much room to participate when they get going. He’s not the only one who has noticed that. Once, when he was sitting next to Courfeyrac, he overheard him predict the points each man would make into Combeferre’s ear. Live. He can’t find much entertainment in their flirting masked as debates. Perhaps that is also explained by his refusal to gamble on when his friends may get together. 

“Did you ask them about Zinn as well?”

“Some of them told me when they brought it up at dinner their parents shut the topic down for being unpatriotic,” Enjolras huffs. “Imagine that.”

“Oh, I can. Easily, in fact.”

Enjolras pauses to consider this. “Yeah, me too. Have you ordered yet?”

“I would have if you were forty minutes late,” Feuilly laughs. “As it is, no. What do you recommend?”

Their eyes meet. Enjolras looks as though he might be trying to will an answer into existence and has found himself disappointed at his inability. “Never been here before either. Supposedly it’s Grantaire’s favorite.”

“Well, his recommendations are always stellar,” Feuilly snorts. “If you’re willing to take a few risks, that is. How has your stomach adapted to spicy food over the years?”

“Reasonably well,” Enjolras says while trying to hide how proud he is of his gustatory fortitude. 

“Been talking a lot with Grantaire recently?” Feuilly tries to inquire almost casually, because he knows Bahorel has been wondering. 

“Why do you ask?” Enjolras furrows his brows, then seems to realize for himself. “Oh, because of the restaurant. No, Prouvaire recommended this place to me last week.”

After half a minute passes in which Feuilly stares and Enjolras doesn’t seem to find anything wrong with that statement, he can’t take it anymore. 

“You think they might have been trying to tell you something with that recommendation?”

“What?” Enjolras looks up, lower lip still caught between his teeth, victim of contemplating a menu as diverse as this one. 

“Since this is Grantaire’s favorite place,” Feuilly prompts. Still, nothing. “Jesus Christ, you’re obtuse sometimes, you know that?” 

Enjolras scowls at him, which Feuilly can safely say he has never done before. “Right, that. Grantaire hasn’t texted me once, since I came back to France. I know all of you seem to think he’s crazy over me. I’m not a fucking idiot, actually.”

Well, there’s a revelation. 

“Maybe I’m not seeing what all of you are,” Enjolras frowns. “But when I like someone, I generally try to spend time with them.”

“And you don’t want to spend time with Grantaire?”

Enjolras’ face goes beet red in an instant. Aha, so he wasn’t quite off the mark there. Feuilly closes his menu, shaking his head. “Looks like you’re going to have to bite the bullet there, my friend.”

Still red, Enjolras mumbles something about getting back to the topic at hand, adding a somewhat desperate ‘ _ please’ _ that Feuilly finds delightful. 

* * *

**Friday, 11:45PM**

By the time Musichetta kicks the last of their group from the Corinth after the meeting, it has considerably thinned out. “Why won’t you tell us where your new job is?” Feuilly hears Bahorel whine. “We need a new hangout once this place goes down.”

“And deprive you of the fun of patronizing every bar in Paris until you find me?” Musichetta laughs, swatting at him with a towel. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“It appears you’ve thought about this more than I have, my good woman.” Bahorel laughs, at last allowing Musichetta to close the door in their faces - or, more specifically: in Bahorel’s face. Even Grantaire has since made peace with calling it a night. 

Bahorel clocks in at a fairly normal state of drunkenness, enough so that he’s prone to horsing around. Grantaire is swift enough to dance out of the way and Bahorel wouldn’t try that shit on poor Prouvaire, so it is Feuilly who suffers being rammed into by the giant, thrown over one broad shoulder despite trying his level best to resist. He’s still digging his nails deep into the flesh of Bahorel’s back, trying to inflict enough pain that he will be put down without having to sink to kicking Bahorel in his crown jewels - the ultimate last resort. 

“You there!” Angry voices grow louder after that first call, quite obviously directed at their variedly merry little group. Grantaire has had a tad too much or perhaps too little, so now he sulks and Prouvaire has been weirdly contemplative for weeks now. Feuilly was previously merry but has now shifted to being torn between annoyance and amusement at being so manhandled. But what does it matter, when Bahorel’s merriness compensates for the lot of them?

“Good evening, officer. Is there a problem?” Bahorel greets in a cheerful tone of voice that always spells trouble. But Bahorel is not the one addressed, it seems. That stern, joyless face - long grown familiar - appears in his vision, scowling. “Is this man harassing you, Monsieur?”

Feuilly, still slung over Bahorel’s shoulder, can’t hold back a burp. He’s also had a few too many, he won’t lie. Boring his elbow into Bahorel’s back as he props his chin on his hand, he retorts: “Oh, constantly, Inspector Javert.” 

Finally, his feet make contact with the ground. It is rather hard to manhandle your friend while you’re desperately trying to hold in your laughter. 

“Can not one citizen of France carry another home?”

“Public intoxication is punishable by a fine of 150€,” the policeman straightens his back. “You will all be accompanying me to the station.”

“Drunkenness?” - “Who, me? Never had a single drop!” - “This is preposterous!” A whole chorus of outrage spills forth from Prouvaire and Grantaire both. 

“I think not,” Bahorel puffs his chest out. “It is only so if we make a nuisance of ourselves. Would hardly be proper of you to arrest young men peacefully making their way home.”

Javert frowns. 

“Gee,  _ Officer Krupke _ , anyone issue a fucking complaint?” 

Feuilly steps down on Bahorel’s foot, hard. 

“Your behavior alone is enough to warrant taking your personal details.”

This lights a flame of defiance in Bahorel’s eyes, who steps closer to Javert. His form is threatening enough in itself, but usually he is not truly angry when he postures. Now, though--

“Yeah?” He wonders. “My arm’s healed now, you should know, I have full use of it again. Wanna have a try at breaking it again, inspector? I’ll make it harder for you this time around, but I imagine we’ll see each other in court again before very long if that’s the case.”

“Leave it be,” Feuilly hears Prouvaire urge and finds himself inclined to agree.

The staring match is still going strong. Feuilly sighs, cuts in eventually. “As we said, we were all just on our way home. Don’t want any trouble, do we?”

“Not right now,” Grantaire agrees, struggling not to laugh. He wasn’t there during the last protests, Feuilly concedes. Maybe he doesn’t know what happened--

“Good night, inspector,” Bahorel’s shoulders release some of their tension, that despicable mocking grin is back on his face. “Lovely seeing you, I’ll dream about your face tonight.” Even as Feuilly begins more earnestly tugging him away, it seems he cannot resist blowing Javert a kiss over his shoulder. 

Around the corner, Bahorel grips him tightly from behind, breathing against his neck as he laughs louder than Feuilly feels is appropriate given the hairsbreadth by which they just avoided a run-in with the law. 

“Can I crash at yours?” 

“As long as you brush your fucking teeth, Fuckface,” Feuilly turns away from his beer stench. “And you better shower, too, or I'm not letting you anywhere near my bed.”

“Hmm, Feuilly, you're so _good_ to me,” Bahorel slurs, sounding content. 

* * *

**Saturday, 2:05PM**

Feuilly has some down time, since Bahorel is still snoring on top of his sheets. He supposes he can’t blame him, they did end up talking until approximately five in the morning, quiet and yawning but still unwilling to succumb to sleep. 

Not Bahorel’s fault that Feuilly’s internal alarm clock is too old to work the off-button, after all these years. It’s rusted and he should be grateful it’s functional, since that means he doesn’t waste the entire day asleep. 

Instead he wastes it awake, tiredly cleaning his apartment. Well, now it’s spotless, and Bahorel is still not awake. What else is he supposed to do?

There’s a letter on his kitchen table that tells him exactly what he should be doing. 

“Hey, you think we should maybe start packing up your stuff for next week?” Bahorel’s heavy footsteps appear behind him just as he is about to take the letter in hand. 

Better to wait, he thinks as he moves to the coffee machine to make Bahorel sound halfway coherent - not whatever this soft mess of a tone is.

“You got so much stuff in here that needs stowing away - hey, I saw in your bedroom that your old coffee machine is still in your closet? Is the one I got you somehow lacking? Also, you’re a book hoarder if ever there was one, and I’ve seen Combeferre’s room. Oh, some of that better be for me.”

“Only so I can get you to shut up for a bit,” Feuilly claims, handing him a cup. 

He’ll read the letter tomorrow, he thinks with a small amount of guilt, knowing he won’t actually. 


	5. Five. “Epibreren”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Area man unable to comprehend that people enjoy his company.

Five. “Epibreren” (dutch)

Definition :  _ to do work on a task that looks important, but is actually just useless busywork. _

* * *

**Monday, 9:22AM**

_ Hi Grantaire, this is...ahem, this is Enjolras calling. I have some down time today, I think Prouvaire said you do as well. Do you maybe want to get coffee later? Please text me-- _ click. Grantaire grins at the ceiling, clicks again.  _ Hi Grantaire, this is...ahem-- _ “What are you doing?” Joly asks, coming out of his bathroom, mouth full of toothpaste and custom toothbrush doing all the heavy lifting outside of his mouth. Quickly, he notices that his teeth aren’t actually seeing any benefit from the top quality instrument this way, and so sticks it back into his mouth. 

“Enjolras left him an awkward voicemail,” Bossuet calls from the couch, where he is flipping through one of the many lifestyle magazines Joly hoards. “He’s being insufferable about it. Tell him to stop, Jolllly.” 

“ _ Tell him to stop _ ,” Grantaire parrots, aiming a wadded up ball of paper at the now bald Eagle. “Why don’t you stop whatever you think you’re doing, huh?”

“I’m educating myself,” Bossuet throws a different magazine at Grantaire’s head. “Why don’t you try doing the same?” Grantaire allows the impact of that to send him sprawling back onto the bed in a show of affinity for drama, grinning up at Joly’s ceiling. Hm, looks like there’s a little bit of water damage at the corner. No matter. Today, Grantaire is a Matthew Wilder song. Bossuet cannot break his stride. 

“Let the man be happy, Boss,” Joly finally shows himself as the supportive friend Grantaire knows him to be, spitting the rest of his toothpaste into the sink and meticulously cleaning the brush. Next he’ll break out the floss, probably. It’s going to be a while before they can actually leave. “He’s been moping long enough, anyway - that number got old years ago.”

Grantaire takes back anything he said about Joly being a good friend.

“Some dogs do learn new tricks,” Bossuet thumps the sofa in an approximation of applause, apparently more interested in whatever article he is reading than Grantaire’s frail heart - not that he can blame him for it. Joly is right, he used to openly mope about Enjolras so much that even the most gossipy of his friends grew tired of it. 

Further reflections on the embarrassingly long history of his pining for a man several hundred leagues above Grantaire are interrupted by a knock on the door, and then Combeferre stands in Joly’s dorm room looking more zombie than man. “Sorry,” he yawns, polite to a fault. 

“Hey, I’ll make room.” Bossuet is already busy evacuating the couch, but Joly nudges Combeferre to the bed instead, where he almost impales Grantaire with a sharp elbow, then rolls onto him after narrowly missing his face in the attack. 

“Uh, hello?” 

But Combeferre is already out cold when Grantaire pokes him. “Is that a common occurrence?”

“Made me wonder the first few times if he’s narcoleptic,” Joly grins by way of answer. “But he just had a night shift, and I’ll bet my ass he went for breakfast with Courfeyrac afterwards. It would appear none of us have the restraint we would like.”

All three men in the room that are still for the waking world nod in understanding. 

“Best leave him to it, then,” Bossuet pats his hands on his thighs, gets up and offers Joly his arm like some gentlemen of old. 

“Guys, I’m trapped beneath your toppled plant,” Grantaire hisses. 

“You can move him, he won’t be for the waking world until two, at least.”

* * *

**Monday, 2:34PM**

Enjolras rises to his feet the second he catches sight of Grantaire ducking into the café, wiping his hands on his jeans, for some indiscernible reason, before giving him a little wave. Of course that now leaves Grantaire shit out of luck when it comes to greetings, the element of surprise prematurely lost. He’d gotten off scot-free during Fridays at the Corinth - that first time he’d improvised, but since then they haven’t had occasion to interact outside of a non-group setting where a wave or nod was perfectly acceptable---

Should he offer Enjolras a hand to shake?

What?

“Hey,” he says instead, could rightly slap himself for sounding so damned breathless. There’s a bit of an awkward wriggle around until at last Enjolras does stick out a hand for him to shake. Solemnly, Grantaire takes it, enduring almost disturbingly intense eye contact all the while. Well, almost being the operative word. This is Enjolras, after all. 

“Hey you,” Grantaire awkwardly doubles down after he has found the presence of mind to clear his throat. Enjolras is gesturing for him to take a seat. God, this is stiff. “Whatcha working on there?”

Enjolras closes the laptop, decidedly. “Articles.”

What does one do with such a non-answer? Grantaire takes the path most often traveled - teasing. 

“Dabbling in journalism too, now? I thought you were strictly poli-sci.”

“It’s always good to keep all options open,” Enjolras shrugs, for once not rising to the bait, possibly because he does not realize he is being baited. Were Joly witness to his thoughts now, Grantaire is certain he would renew Grantaire’s title as master-baiter. Bahorel would probably put it in more colloquial terms and simply stick to calling him a wanker. “I’m losing a semester as is, it follows I ought to use my free time productively.”

Right, right, being thrown out of the country will do that to a person. 

“And how’s that going for you?”

“I’ve discovered that I’m miles better in person.”

“Oh, I wholeheartedly concur,” Grantaire grins, unable to resist giving him a very obvious once-over, simply because he knows it will annoy Enjolras to no end. There’s that lovely redness, ah. Pulling Enjolras’ metaphorical pigtails is an old habit, the hardest vice to give up though he has been cautioned by many - including Bahorel, who had told him in no uncertain terms of the ineffectiveness of it, stating that he would know better than anyone. Why Bahorel knows such things, Grantaire cares not to investigate. 

“I meant that I feel more confident giving speeches.” 

“Of course, what did you think I meant?” 

As Grantaire said, it's a hard habit to kick.

Now his brows pinch together, a look Grantaire knows all too well, one that signals it is time to desist. But what conversation has he truly had with Enjolras in their lives that does not involve ribbing the man? Where does he go from here?

“Anyway…” Grantaire clears his throat. “Doing anything fun this week?”

Fuck him, but he can’t make smalltalk with Enjolras for shit. His palms are literally sweaty, and he suspects his brow is faring no better. Seems to work for the other man though, because he breaks out into a wide smile. 

“Feuilly asked me to dinner tomorrow. He wants to cook.”

“Did he?”

“Because I asked him last week, he said,” Enjolras nods. “We had a really nice time. Feuilly’s… well Feuilly is great.”

“And don’t we all know it,” Grantaire agrees. Then, because he doesn’t know what is good for him, he adds:“Still on that crush, huh?”

“No.” Enjolras coughs, the bright redness of his face betraying his insincerity. Something shatters, and Grantaire realizes with some concern that a waiter dropped a mug, perfectly timed to the painful process of his own heartbreak. Still, Enjolras continues stammering, apparently oblivious to Grantaire’s plight. “That’s in the past. That has long been in the past - I don’t. It was never-- I mean, I’ve always thought he was great, I still think he’s great, but I don’t--”

“Hey,” Grantaire places his hand over Enjolras’, to stop him from wildly gesticulating himself to death. “I get it. Don’t worry.” 

If anyone knows a thing or two about holding onto crushes that aren’t reciprocated for longer than is healthy, it’s him. And who knows what the future holds? Feuilly might even take him up on it now. These dinners are certainly a new development. Who is he to be mad at Feuilly for taking an interest in what is being offered?

(He’s a tosser, that is who Grantaire is, but he’s trying very hard not to be.)

“Oh, good,” Enjolras smiles. “Thank you. Everyone keeps teasing me about it. It’s kind of making me uncomfortable.”

This conversation is kind of making Grantaire uncomfortable - but what else is new? 

“You’re very easy to tease, in our friends’ defense,” Grantaire grins. 

“You should know.” Enjolras’ loose strands of hair jump upwards when he huffs, it’s really a very interesting phenomenon. But they’re not quite on beat, the two of them. Grantaire and Enjolras, that is, not Enjolras’ wonderfully wavy strands of hair. Too many seconds pass in silence, in which Grantaire pretends to have to think very hard about what he’ll order even though he’s had the same go-to drink since boarding school. 

“Oh,” Enjolras notices, after a while. “I already ordered your cappuccino.”

Grantaire looks up, dumbfounded, closes the menu slowly. What is one to make of that, exactly?

“Sorry, I should have texted when I realized you would be late,” Enjolras appears hesitant now. “That is still your favorite?”

He hadn’t considered that Enjolras might have remembered. It’s been years since they saw each other. Then Grantaire remembers that in the year and a half of boarding school in which their time there overlapped, he must have been lastingly traumatized by Grantaire’s coffee habits. 

“Yes.” Grantaire’s heart is a soft mess when it takes in Enjolras’ relieved expression. “It is. I’m very loyal to my favorites.”

“Good to know,” Enjolras comments, slightly confused but offering something like a smile. 

When their drinks do arrive swiftly thereafter, he comes up short regarding what the fuck Enjolras has ordered. 

“I’m trying something new,” Enjolras explains when Grantaire shows visible confusion. “Joly told me he was worried about my teeth when we grabbed coffee recently.”

(Anyway, it’s good to know that Enjolras wasn’t too busy to meet with friends that aren’t the much admired Feuilly, just that apparently he hadn’t thought about meeting with Grantaire until Prouvaire - ever helpful - basically hit him over the head with the hints they were dropping. Feels good. Yeah, super lovely. But hey, they’re both here now, and it’s just as awkward as Grantaire always feared it would be, so maybe it would have been best to just leave things as they were.)

“How are you going to switch to black coffee after abusing the poor café staff around the world with requests for ‘five more sugar packets and a half cup of almond milk, please’?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Ah, determined face. Well, best let Enjolras sort this one out for himself. The way his mouth screws up after the first sip leaves Grantaire looking down, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Fuck, that’s adorable. 

“Now, is that really worth it?” 

“It’s not that bad.” Enjolras makes a very valiant attempt at a neutral face, but the suffering is written into his eyes for all to read. 

“Joly isn’t even here - I won’t tell him you’re still being awful to your teeth. I’m sure you have regular check-ups and cleanings, anyway. Hell, I’m sure he’s told you to floss and you’ve actually been keeping up with it.”

“But I’m determined.”

“I can see that, but I can also tell you that cold turkey is making it harder for yourself than it has to be,” Grantaire jokes, leading to a shared awkward laugh, before he decides to buy himself a little more time, “How about I go steal you only three packets of sugar, for a start?”

Enjolras has another sip, cringes, then admits defeat: “Please.”

And won’t their friends be laughing in disbelief when Grantaire tells them that he got Enjolras to compromise? 

* * *

**Wednesday, 8:05AM**

“Late again, Mister Grantaire,” Gros chides when Grantaire slips into the room. “Any riveting explanations to offer this time?”

“Didn’t want to come.” Grantaire tries for a sunny smile, following Gros’ beckoning hand to the backroom where he must mean to give him yet another dressing down. Prouvaire, from their perch in the back, shake their head at him, apologetically. They almost look as though they’re about to speak out, but Grantaire makes a cutting off motion at his neck. Prouvaire desists, slumping a little. 

He does, however, toss Jehan the bag of baked goods they asked him to pick up from Bossuet, freshly prepared in honor of awful Wednesday morning classes. He is treated to a mouthed thank-you from Prouvaire. Not their fault Bossuet and Grantaire got caught up chatting over coffee for much longer than either intended. It had cost the both of them - Bossuet burned a bunch of rolls. To his enterprising credit, he had then attempted to sell them to Grantaire as painting charcoal. 

“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” Gros entirely skips the lecture Grantaire had come to expect. “The sketches you handed in.”

He doesn’t prompt his teacher, just makes a very displeased face at nothing in particular. 

“They’re very good, Thibault.”

Ugh, not this again. Still, there is a way to spin this to his advantage. “Good enough to excuse my tardiness?”

Gros scoffs. “This isn’t high school, we both know I only do that spiel because you’ve all come to expect it.”

Had they both known that? Grantaire isn’t so sure, but he is nonetheless relieved. Gros picks out Grantaire’s folder from a small pile, pushes it out for him expectantly. “You could display these.”

“They’re sketches,” Grantaire stresses, taking them back into his keeping, albeit reluctantly. Truth be told, he’s more of a mind to destroy them. 

“And you’ve got a very good grasp of color theory, as I recall. If you committed to art you could go places.”

Grantaire can’t really respond to that. He’s feeling the urge to chew his fingernails to bits, and that’s never a good urge. “Respectfully, I don’t--”

“Yes, yes,” Gros waves a hand. “We’ve had this conversation. Art isn’t your future. But what  _ is _ , I wonder?”

He hasn’t shuffled his feet in a while, that seems like a very important thing to focus on instead of meeting Gros’ eye. Undeterred, Gros just keeps on going: “You collect and hoard all sorts of credits, most recently Philosophy, I’ve been told. You never finish anything enough that it would guarantee your success post-graduation.”

“I have a vague ambition to become the ultimate Renaissance Man,” Grantaire grimaces. He really doesn’t need his failures thrown back into his face like that. Phone calls with his grandmother, sweet though she is, do that often enough. 

“What a shame that it is rather more difficult to find wealthy patrons in this day and age,” Gros comments, mildly. 

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew how to operate a smartphone, with all due respect.”

Gros laughs, short and choppy. He shoves one of Grantaire’s lesser sketches at him, one he must have singled out, enjoyed enough to take it out of the portfolio. 

“Try and make that into a painting. You can even display it anonymously, I’ll make sure of it.”

That tone, Grantaire recognizes as one brokering no argument, so he offers none. 

* * *

**Wednesday, 9:14PM**

He is less mortified by the implications of future success that Gros made once he’s got Joly and Bossuet on either side of him, concentrating very hard on peanut-pong. So far, Joly is in the lead, though that may have something to do with Bossuet and Grantaire both being a little too off their game. Bossuet because he is drunk, and Grantaire because he’s just out of it today. 

What’s not lost on Grantaire, however, is that Joly is having only a few sips, still on his first beer. Grantaire and Bossuet have long since outpaced him, and that is not often the case, especially since Grantaire began to slow down his habits a few years ago. 

“Shift tomorrow?” Grantaire asks, as Joly successfully flicks another peanut into Bossuet’s glass. That means Bossuet has to take an embarrassing amount of sips now, but he does so in good spirits. 

“No,” Joly denies, eyes locked firmly on Bossuet, who is aiming at Joly’s still mostly-full glass. (The singular time they played this game in Musichetta’s presence, she called them disgusting for it, so it has been relegated to a treasured, exclusive boys’ night activity.) “Not feeling the alcohol right now, to be frank. Exams coming up.”

Exams are always coming up, Grantaire almost dismisses. Bossuet beats him to it though, so he refrains. “How’s studying with Combeferre going?” Bossuet asks further, narrowly missing the glass. 

“Good,” Joly comments, “As usual, he’s miles ahead of me and has read seven recently published papers on the matter at hand so he can smack down anyone that has a particularly strong opinion on things he deems outdated, but I like to think he drives me to also want to do better just so I can keep up.”

“That bad, huh?” Grantaire chortles. 

“You should have seen him last week,” Joly sighs, “That poor professor said he didn’t believe that medical research habitually overlooked women, and Combeferre stomped him into the ground. It’s his way of channeling all the frustration he actually feels about Courfeyrac, I bet.”

“What’s this?” Bossuet leans forward on his elbows, intrigued but thereby getting his sleeve wet from the gathered condensation of their drinks. 

“Minor sins the dear Lord doth punish posthaste,” Grantaire snickers when Bossuet shakes his dripping sleeve, face momentarily dismayed. “Let ye be warned, lest ye be tempted to partake in the sin of gossip once more.” 

He earns himself a wet but gentle slap from Bossuet sleeve for that mockery of faith. The act has also brought a smile upon his face once more though, so in a way Grantaire just martyred himself for his friend’s happiness. Maybe that will garner him some credit with Bossuet’s man upstairs. 

“Oh, if it’s not popular science it’s Courfeyrac,” Joly snorts, seamlessly circling back to gossip. “‘Courfeyrac is overworking himself so much I think he’s trying to avoid me.’ ‘Courfeyrac is being weird about Algeria.’ ‘Courfeyrac keeps trying to make me leave the country.’ He gets agitated during study breaks, it’s a very fascinating occurrence. It also means he regulates this agitation by not taking very many breaks.”

“So Bahorel is losing a bet to me in two days, if my lucky streak keeps up,” Bossuet grins, thumping the table twice for good measure. Grantaire then proceeds to throw a peanut into his glass. So much for luck. 

“If I were Combeferre I’d just kiss Courfeyrac and be done with it,” Joly huffs. 

Now, it may not be obvious to Joly, who is busy looking for the waitress to order more peanuts, but it is obvious to Grantaire that Bossuet is now substantially more interested than he was even a few seconds ago - and his interest was not small to begin with. 

“Would you?” He asks, failing to sound unexcited. 

Joly laughs, “Yes. Then I’d tell Courfeyrac to do his next internship in Oran, or even a semester abroad, and I’d spend a happy few months with him before settling back in Paris or wherever those two end up.”

“Except of course,” Bossuet adds, “That they’d go to prison if they were found out.”

“Well, Courfeyrac might do well to take in more scenic jails, broaden his horizons,” Grantaire laughs. I’m sure he could draw Javert’s face from memory now, and he is no painter. I do think they’d more likely expel them from the country, though. Then he could lord that over Enjolras as well, having at last caught up to him. Oh, I can imagine it now -- ‘Anything you can do, I can do better, the twenty-first century remix.’”

“An untimely arrest or expulsion from the country would leave Jolllly’s plans shot,” Bossuet pouts. “Sorry, dear.”

“Well,” Joly shrugs. “I’m not Combeferre, anyway. Not likely to go around kissing Courfeyrac anytime soon, not sure that interests me.”

“You never know,” Grantaire grins. “I’m told he’s an absolutely fantastic kisser.”

“Who might have told you that?” Joly thanks the waitress for their replenished peanut supply, ordering a cup of tea. Upon receiving bewildered looks, he says: “I’m coming down with something, I’m sure of it. My nose is stuffy, my throat is sore.”

“Only all of his exes,” Grantaire laughs. “One of them goes to the same gym I do. Rave reviews for our dear Courf, all around.”

“Rave reviews can be misleading,” Joly cautions. 

“I’m sure you’re very welcome to test him out yourself,” Grantaire shrugs. “Though you do risk pissing off your houseplant. Don’t want a Little Shop of Horrors situation, do we?”

“Right,” Bossuet nods, energetically, but trying to look stern. “Don’t go around kissing Courfeyrac. That’s a bad idea.”

“I won’t be going around kissing anyone.” Joly mutters, frowning now. “In case neither of you noticed, I’m a very lonely man.”

“Well, if it’s kisses you want, Jolllly,” Bossuet leans forward a tad more, teetering a bit, lips puckered. Joly throws Grantaire a panicked glance, who crosses his arms, leaning back to observe. 

“Don’t look at me, wasn’t me who offered.”

Joly is starting to breathe faster, reaching into his pockets for his inhaler while Bossuet laughs, leaning his head on the table and looking at Joly all dreamily. Gross. 

Once Joly is breathing normally again, he waves off all concern that swiftly followed Bossuet’s realization that Joly was not, in fact, just flustered, then proceeds to come at Grantaire. “So, Grantaire, how was your coffee date with Enjolras?”

One good turn deserves another, he supposes. 

“Awkward,” he declares, “‘And no word of a lie.” He looks at two very intrigued, expectant faces. “Can’t figure out how to talk to him normally. I always end up riling him up and I’m fairly sure he hates it. The other option is to sit in silence, which I think we both hate even more.”

“Could always read him all those letters you drafted but never sent,” Joly nudges him. 

“Okay, friend, you are  _ not _ the person to come at me for my pathetic unrequited feelings.”

He regrets addressing it because Joly’s eyes go wide as saucers and he immediately shuts up. 

“Why not?” Bossuet asks, lost. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Yeah,” Joly admits. “That’s fair.”

“Guys?” Bossuet still looks confused. Shit, Grantaire shouldn’t have brought it up. 

“Don’t you know? Joly’s in love with me, Boss. Desperately. Wildly. Passionately.”

Playing it off as a joke works, Bossuet laughs uproariously, soon Joly joins in, and all talk of awkward feelings between friends are soon forgotten. Small mercies. 

* * *

**Thursday, 1:37AM**

“That was a good save,” Joly later commends, when they’re walking back to his dorms together. Combeferre is crashing at Casa Pontmercy-Courfeyrac tonight, before those two move the entirety of their stuff into the new house, come daylight hours. Bossuet’s place is abandoned now, he’s bridging the next few days at Musichetta’s and Ép’s place, until Feuilly gives him the all-clear for his room. Should work out this week. Which means that, for a change, he gets to enjoy Joly’s brand spanking new wonder couch instead of Bossuet’s comfortable but suspiciously old and stained corduroy sofa. That one has been given to Paris’ streets, back to where it came from. A perfect cycle. 

Joly is still talking. “And it’s a good thing you did, because otherwise I’d have to blame you for ruining my oldest friendship. Wasn’t looking forward to that.”

“Wasn’t me who fell in love with my best friend,” Grantaire nudges him. “Me, I go for guys I know to have no opinion on whether or not I should continue to exist.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Joly sneezes, still managing to sound stern as he does. Perhaps this time he really is coming down with a cold. 

“I’m just copying you, man,” Grantaire sighs. After a while of walking in companionable silence, he probes: “You really think it would ruin things if he found out? He’s Boss, come on.”

Now Bossuet hasn’t said as much, but like recognizes like. Grantaire knows pining. It’s unusual to see a man already happily spoken for pine, but it is evident nonetheless.

“I would never be able to look him in the eyes again,” Joly claims. “Bad enough he catches me staring every so often.”

“If you say so...”

* * *

**Thursday, 7:07PM**

Grantaire and Joly have both changed into their pajamas after an exhausting day of packing all of Joly’s stuff in the appropriate suitcases and cushioning and then doing nothing past lunch. Grantaire was just about to convince Joly to order disgustingly greasy pizza, but alas, a knock on the door interrupts them. 

Standing expectantly in the hall is Enjolras, behind him Courfeyrac looks like he may be the sole reason Combeferre is still on his feet. 

“Is he wasted?” Grantaire dares ask, slightly excited. 

“He’s fucking tired,” Courfeyrac pouts. “Told me he got a full night’s sleep and then fell asleep in the soup bowl.”

“Did he really?” Joly appears behind Grantaire, eyes alight with curiosity. “Tell me you have photos!”

“Of course I do,” Courfeyrac scoffs. “Who do you take me for? Anyway he has an early shift tomorrow. Can he crash here? it's much closer to the hospital.” 

“Ordinarily that wouldn’t even be a question, but Grantaire--”

“Yes, we’ve thought that through. There’s space on Enjolras Sr.’s Paris couch. My bedding is at the new house, but my actual bed and mattress are in Pontmercy’s storage truck, it’s parked wherever he has his date tonight and I can’t reach him,” Courfeyrac explains, though Grantaire is not sure he follows. 

“Where are you crashing, then?” Joly wonders. 

“Oh, Bahorel offered,” Courfeyrac smiles. “We’re going to have a nice, long movie night at the new house, he’s all moved in. Think Prouvaire wanted to join as well.”

“Lovely.”

“Grantaire, do you mind?” Enjolras asks, making direct eye contact again. Does Grantaire  _ mind?  _ Honestly. 

“Give me a minute to get my stuff, won’t be much, most of it is in Bossuet’s car, ready for tomorrow,” Grantaire excuses himself, ignoring the slightly hushed voices that flare up the second he enters the bathroom. It’s hard to ignore. But valiantly, he manages. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Courfeyrac shepherding Combeferre onto the couch, stroking his cheek and taking his glasses off for him. Combeferre gives him a tired, adoring smile, snuggles deeper into his blankets, breathing out something that could be construed as a thank you or perhaps something more heartfelt. A second later, he’s out cold. 

Courfeyrac gazes down at him a while longer, seeming completely unaware of the fact that everyone is looking at the two of them with baited breath. Rolling his eyes, Courfeyrac presses a kiss to Combeferre’s forehead, which earns him another soft noise. 

“That’s what all of you wanted, right?” Courfeyrac huffs, getting up and cracking his knuckles. “Grantaire, you ready to stop staring at my ass and go?”

“Fuck off.”

It is a great ass, though.

* * *

**Thursday, 9:20PM**

The door shuts behind Courfeyrac, who only just got done looking over some of the documents the University sent over to Enjolras regarding his enrollment status. Grantaire meanwhile made himself look very busy by combing through the rather extensive Enjolrasian tea collection. There must be two dozen different kinds here, at the very least. 

He’s not even done with counting by the time he realizes Enjolras has been watching him for a while. “Anything you want to try?”

“Plenty,” Grantaire says dumbly, startled. “Too much for us to get through in one night.”

“Well, you could always stay over again,” Enjolras shrugs. Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to say. “Or, ahem, seeing as we’ll have the same kitchen soon…”

“We can still have sleepovers at the house,” Grantaire easily falls back into teasing territory, tries to stop, sees how Enjolras blushes and cannot bring himself to regret it. “If you want,” he adds, winking. 

“Right,” Enjolras turns away from him, flexing his fingers, his shoulders clenched. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Oh, but we were just getting to the good stuff,” Grantaire laughs, at last giving up. “Yeah, okay, let’s argue over movie choices. I think I’m feeling partial to Adam Sandler tonight.”

The way Enjolras looks is absolutely stunning. 

“No,” he decides, a tone of finality accompanying the single word. “Netflix will recommend me his other movies if I put it on.”

“I had no idea you were such a goodie-two-shoes, using the legal channels, paying for your movies.”

“I have a shared netflix account with several of my American friends.”

“Look who grew popular across the pond.” 

Enjolras throws him another weird look. Undeterred, or, forcing himself to be undeterred, he continues: “Allow me to introduce you to the delights of piracy, darling.”

“I’m not watching an Adam Sandler movie.”

“Well, I’m all for compromise. What will it be: Nightcrawler or Snowpiercer?”

“I’ve expanded my tastes,” Enjolras claims. “Have you seen The Motorcycle Diaries?”

Grantaire laughs and doesn’t stop until Enjolras suddenly sits next to him on the couch. They are in closer proximity now than they have been in the last decade, maybe. It’s not bad. They chat a bit during the movie, occasionally Enjolras pauses to tell him fun facts, then endures - with a reddened face - Grantaire’s teasing about his crush on Che. That’s easier to tease him for than his crush on Feuilly, anyway, seeing how unattainable the former is as opposed to the growing intimacy Enjolras shares with the latter. 

It’s not awkward at all, which Grantaire puts down to not opening his mouth.

That’s something to be very grateful for. 

* * *

**Friday, 9:12AM**

Enjolras has a cup of cappuccino waiting for him when he wakes up, looking soft and slightly disheveled with embroidered booty shorts that Grantaire vaguely recalls as a going away present from Courfeyrac. Gratefully, Grantaire accepts the caffeinated offering, delighting in the merits of the fully automatic, high end machine sitting on the marble counter. 

“You all packed?” Grantaire asks, after he’s pushed enough hair out of his face to see. 

“Oh, yep,” Enjolras nods. “This was only a temporary thing, anyway. None of this stuff is mine, just after a few days on Courfeyrac’s jeans couch I was chafing everywhere.”

“Didn’t want to keep sharing his bed?”

“Pontmercy very often came in for evening chats, and Combeferre crashed there a few times and three in that bed is a little crowded, frankly, and once I woke up to Bahorel spooning me, which was not unpleasant per se but much more company than I expected and-- anyway, his bed was too popular for me. The couch offered more privacy, but only marginally. This place is my father’s.”

“Why didn’t you live here from the start then?”

“Because it’s my father’s.” 

“Right,” Grantaire nods. Looking around, it does seem too ostentatious for so ardent a friend of the lower classes. “Managed to acquire a fairly impressive tea collection considering you’ve lived here - how long? Two weeks?”

“Brought that over with me,” Enjolras smiles, ducks his head a little. “I’ll need to buy furniture for the house, though.”

“Well, sleepover is still on the table,” Grantaire grins. “As long as you don’t have a bed, I mean.”

Then Grantaire realizes that he is also still sadly lacking a bed. He’d mooched an inflatable mattress off of Pontmercy, but that won’t go very far, he fears. It’s nothing to offer Enjolras, anyway, especially when he has seen the spectacular bed Feuilly has installed in his own room. Grantaire won’t be able to hold a candle to that, even with the finest bed second-hand furniture stores can offer.

“Not afterwards?” 

Jesus Christ, that almost sounded flirtatious. What a way to be torn from mental furniture shopping. 

“Anytime. As it happens, I also need a bed first, but you’re welcome to Pontmercy’s inflatable mattress, I’m sure it’s the shit as opposed to just shit.”

Enjolras smiles a little more. Someone with more talent than Grantaire should immortalize those curls and their luster. Something about the current sunlight is making them appear transcendental. Here, Gros would shudder at Grantaire’s inability to word his thoughts on the artwork presented to him. Another old frustration. “Alright,” Enjolras agrees, in a tone so soft Grantaire has to scramble for a change of topic or he will, quite literally, melt into a puddle at the man’s feet and do something ridiculous like beg him to let Grantaire kiss his feet. 

“So, when’s the van coming over?”

“Feuilly told me ETA is 20 minutes, but this is Paris we’re talking about. Think we’ll have another hour for breakfast, at least.”

* * *

**Friday, 5:47PM**

“Grantaire,” Pontmercy calls out to him, jogging up the grand staircase to the first floor, appearing slightly out of breath, struggling to hold on to...something black and presumably made of plastic. “I put the mattress in your room, have you inflated it yet?”

Grantaire shakes his head. Between helping everyone set up and arguing with Combeferre about the necessity of a first aid kit in every bathroom, Grantaire feels like he hasn’t had a minute to take care of his own stuff. Or a minute to contemplate on today’s breakfast, though thoughts of that are more pervasive than thoughts of the air mattress he has yet to inflate.

“Oh, good!” Marius rejoices. “Because it turns out Feuilly owns an automatic pump, that sounds much easier. I have it here.” Almost as if asked to, Marius valiantly hoists the aforementioned object into Grantaire’s line of vision. It is as endearing as it is peculiar.

“Lead the way,” Grantaire gestures, contemplating relieving Marius of the pump, but then deciding that Pontmercy looks rather determined to prove his own valor. He won’t take that opportunity out of his hands. Instead he practices making small talk, with the ambition of becoming less shit, less prone to ramble on despite his conversational partner’s wishes.

“Heard you had a date yesterday, Pontmercy?”

Pontmercy drops the pump. Grantaire, thankfully, has some practice with not letting precious things shatter on the ground, though he admits this pump is heavier than a bottle. An awkward laugh from Pontmercy later, he asks: “Who said I, uh – never mind. Joly is under the impression that since I have not told you guys who I am meeting with I must have, um, well, he thinks I must have a girlfriend I’m keeping from you.”

“Scandalous,” Grantaire relishes this tidbit. “Is there a girlfriend you’re keeping from us?”

“I, what – no,” Marius stammers, gathering the pump and determinedly taking the last few steps. “I mean, there is a girl, but you know about her. Courfeyrac likes to tease me for her, but uh… oh, it’s nothing like he makes it out to be!”

“This would be the park girl whose praises you sang to us?”

“She is  _ lovely _ ,” Marius sighs, wistful like Grantaire can only vaguely remember being about Enjolras, once upon a time. Oh, scratch that, he was probably a hundred times worse because he lacked that youthful sort of hope that he had a chance, even then. “But she’s not who I am—“

Grantaire pats his shoulder, comfortingly.

“You go have your dates in peace, Pontmercy,” he counsels. “Joly just trying to be supportive. He is cursed with unquenchable nosiness, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Marius nods, energetically. “But he’s a very good chap, isn’t he?”

“The best,” Grantaire agrees. “Let’s get pumping, shall we?”

Joly appears as if called, slightly frazzled looking, one hand on Grantaire’s door frame, leaning. “Bahorel and I are going on a grocery run, do you guys need anything?”

“Wine,” Grantaire says as Pontmercy says “No, nothing, but thank you ever so much for offering!”

Grantaire gives Pontmercy an odd look that is supposed to convey ‘what are you doing, his mother is an ambassador, when Joly offers to get stuff it always ends up being super good,  _ and _ he’s bringing along Bahorel, who is just as much of a rich kid’, but he doesn’t think Pontmercy gets it. So Grantaire doubles down. “Lots of wine.”

“That’s going to be a very short shopping list then, if everybody just wants booze,” Joly sighs. “Guess we’ll get a bit of everything? I think we need fruit. Grantaire, when’s the last time you had fruit? I won’t let scurvy enter this house.”

“I had orange juice this morning.”

“Was it fresh orange juice?” Joly’s eyes narrow, a sly look comes over his features. “Did Enjolras make you breakfast?”

“Very good breakfast,” Grantaire says, planning a way to divert Joly’s curiosity and finding himself not without ammunition. “I’m afraid the only sugar our dear leader had this morning was in his coffee, however.”

Joly does not fall for the bait, unfortunately. Which Grantaire supposes is good, in a way. That way he doesn’t have to feel guilty for trying to sell Enjolras out. “We’ll be having words about this.”

“Are we going to have words about whatever you were doing last night, too? Combeferre said you were gone when he woke up!”

Joly’s retreating form shows him a middle finger. When Grantaire turns back to Pontmercy, the poor man looks quite perplexed. “You know, Grantaire, you’re all very lovely people, but half the time I have no idea what you all mean.”

“You’ll get the hang of it, Pontmercy.”

* * *

**Friday, 9:35PM**

There is now an array of five different couches in the ground floor common area, including the eyesore that is Courfeyrac’s jeans couch. Grantaire and Feuilly had both opined on the idea of possibly dropping it in a puddle outside, but that would in all likelihood have only upset Courfeyrac and they’d have wasted one of his days. Courfeyrac would have spent tomorrow cleaning stains with tears in his eyes; to see him serenely massage Combeferre’s head as he cradles the dozing man’s face in his lap is a much better sight. Yes, he’s disturbingly fond of that monstrosity. 

On said monstrosity sits Prouvaire, in a piece of clothing that Grantaire thought must have gone down with the Corinth, left behind in the empty rooms of Bossuet’s apartment. “Prouvaire, I want my hoodie back,” Grantaire calls into the assembled round before plopping into the seat next to Enjolras. He’ll swear later that he didn’t know who he was putting his arm around as he dropped over the back of a sofa he thinks might have belonged to Feuilly but now belongs to their little commune, and his friends will not believe him, but in that moment he only sees Bahorel’s knit cap and neglects to observe that the shoulders in question are not nearly broad enough to belong to the friend whose booming voice he can now hear come from the kitchen. Plus, there’s the blond hair, but he hasn’t seen Bahorel in hours – that’s enough time to dye his hair. Point being: his arm is around Enjolras’ shoulder, several people are shouting in the kitchen, most eyes are on Grantaire’s arm around Enjolras’ shoulder. Such is the current scene, the audience – meaning the respective friends seated on the various couches here – wait, impatiently, to see how this will play out. Why is Enjolras wearing Bahorel’s weird beanie-adjacent headwear, anyway?

“No, Joly, you can’t place the apples with the bananas, I’m telling you it spoils them.”

“My mother always puts them together,” Joly huffs. Grantaire swiftly tunes them out, because Enjolras has turned his face towards him, eyes questioning but mien not displeased. Grantaire scrambles for something to say. Surely Enjolras expects him to say something?

“You can’t have it back,” Prouvaire, merciful friend, saves him by raising their voice. “I washed it, it’s mine now.”

Grantaire gives his hoodie a long look. It’s his favorite, his one and only. “I’ll trade you something of mine,” Prouvaire beguiles, though their eyes look hesitant. Grantaire makes a non-committal sound. He’ll let Prouvaire keep it, then. It’s getting too warm for hoodies, anyway. Come the winter, he’ll reevaluate.

A second later, Joly presses a wine glass – a full one, even! – into his hand. “I’m told this one is very good. What do you make of the bouquet?”

“Tastes like grape juice,” Grantaire sniffs after he has a sip. Next to him, Enjolras giggles, hiding his face in the crook of what must, after a day of work, be a very smelly elbow and not drawing away with a scrunched up nose. Ah, a prank. A confusing one, but a prank nonetheless. And an unexpected one at that.

Joly shrugs. “Enjolras told me to do it. Bet he wasn’t expecting to have to pay up.”

With good humor, Enjolras forks over several small banknotes, before getting up. “I’ll get you an actual glass as recompense.”

Grantaire can only stare after him. Leaning close, Joly whispers: “We talked about how you were always teasing him. Didn’t expect him to be so receptive to my suggestion to get you back.”

He knows what Joly is trying to say, turns a skeptical eye on him. 

“Not what I would call a sophisticated prank,” Grantaire comments, mildly. 

“Our leader has much to learn by way of mischief,” Joly agrees, voice temporarily solemn. Emboldened by drink and high spirits, Joly slaps Grantaire’s knee, grinning at him. “Doesn’t care about your existence, my ass.”

Almost against his will, as one after another his friends settle into the little group of couches, and Enjolras returns with two glasses and toast to make, that damned Matthew Wilder song starts playing in Grantaire’s head again. 


	6. Six. "Iktsuarpok."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normalize making out with your friends to piss off homophobes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the power of admiring anons brought this fic back from the obscurity I let it linger in for months.

Six. “Iktsuarpok _.”_

Definition: _the feeling of eager anticipation while waiting for someone to arrive at your house._

**Saturday, 12:33PM**

Light hurts when he first blinks his eyes open. Bahorel shuts them tightly to scope out the situation with different senses. 

Someone’s in bed with him. That becomes apparent when he feels a comfortable weight half on top of him, half to his side. What becomes apparent next, is that Bahorel is wearing minimal clothing - possibly none. Jury is still out. The person next to him is trying to escape. “Normally,” Feuilly announces conversationally when Bahorel tightens his vise-like grip to prevent his flight, “this doesn’t wake you up.”

Bahorel opens his eyes again. Feuilly looks like a disheveled mess. There’s something crusty in his beard and thick bits of sleep in his eyes, though their colour is soft in the midday light. “First time for everything, hey?” Working his throat feels like being dragged along a gravel road. Why does his voice sound like that? Might have taken it too far last night. “Why am I naked, Feuilly?” 

Truth be told, he has no recollection past the impromptu Friday get-together at the couch-circle. Now that the Corinth is no longer an entity, they have to make do with what they’ve gained in its stead. It certainly worked just as well; he and Joly damn well bought a bar’s stock at the liquor store when they finished the groceries.

Now he wakes, possibly and probably entirely naked, with Feuilly in his arms, looking like _that_ \-- Jesus Christ, what did they do?

“Ask your indomitable need to get undressed in the presence of bathtubs, not me.” To be fair, that does not sound like anything happened. “Mate,” Feuilly sighs, looking at him oddly. 

“Yeah?” Bahorel answers, trying to get his voice to sound normal. Shit, did he make a move after all? Did they— Feuilly is still wearing clothes, he can feel that. Boxer briefs and a tank top; that’s his regular sleeping attire. But that doesn’t have to mean anything - Feuilly _would_ be the type to get dressed again after sex.

“Would you mind letting go of me?”

“Ah, right.” Bahorel stretches his arms. They ache after holding his best friend in place or possibly hours. “Yeah, no problem.” Feuilly rolls away from him, making no move to get out of bed. “Anything to do today? Big agenda?”

“Enjolras took me up on my offer of showing him where to get the best second-hand couches.” Feuilly stretches like a cat. “Only other thing to do is fix some of the windows, but I think we might be some of the first to wake. When we went upstairs everyone else was still in high spirits.”

“And how long exactly have you been awake?”

Feuilly groans. “I think I had so much that my internal alarm clock was knocked the fuck out. Only been up for a few minutes before you.”

Bahorel makes a pleased sound. Feuilly should be getting more sleep on the regular. Granted, maybe not at the price of a hangover, but-- “Count on Enjolras never to say no to an outing with you. Too high-brow for dumpster diving, our dear leader? I’m sure Bossuet offered.” Not that Bahorel doesn’t jump at every opportunity to spend time with his best friend. Right. 

Feuilly elbows him, hard, startling a laugh out of Bahorel that just goes on and on -- its a nice morning, after all. He slips from the bed, fishing for his jeans and disappearing through the bathroom into his own bedroom. “I don’t blame him for being wary of picking up a random couch from the curb. We can’t all have Lesgles’ optimism,” he explains when he returns, diligently buttoning his shirt and slicking his hair back with wet hands before placing an old cap over it. _Whore’s shower,_ Bahorel called that quick way of styling once in his youth and had been severely upbraided and clapped over the head for it.

Bahorel’s sheets slide lower as he sits up. As he does so, he watches Feuilly’s eyes rather obviously track the movement, interrupted in the process of putting on shoes. It’s little things like these that confuse Bahorel. Because, sure, that could be misplaced envy. Bahorel does have some spectacular pecs, he’ll even admit that in public if he’s feeling like a jerk-off. It’s just that he doesn’t think it _is_ envy. Something in his guts tells him that, in Feuilly’s eyes, there is something very promising. 

He can’t be sure, of course, and he does not want to presume. He’s no expert on reading someone’s face, can’t judge Feuilly’s mood from a single look like Feuilly seems to be able to do to him. Feuilly has Bahorel at a disadvantage here and doesn’t even know it. No doubt by now Feuilly has cottoned on to the cause of Bahorel's odd behavior these last few months, and has read into what Bahorel has laid bare for the world to see.

“Joly made him disinfect that thing for two weeks before he let anyone sit on it,” Bahorel swears, though Feuilly remains doubtful, or whatever that look is supposed to be. “But also, we have enough couches now, I would say.” 

“His room is fairly large. I think he said something about needing a reading nook because staying under the sheets all day made him feel disgusting.” 

A pointed look at Bahorel follows. This one is easily understood. He laughs, though a second later he protests, “I delight in my filth.” 

“Don’t we all know it.” Feuilly grins, at last glancing away from Bahorel to tie his shoes.

“You rolled around right in the dirt with me, mate. Heard no complaints - and with a perfectly serviceable bed next door, one could almost believe you enjoyed sleeping away the night with me.” 

“Day, more like,” Feuilly mutters, eyes tracking the room after he has squinted at the past-midday sun shining through the windows. On Bahorel’s night stand sits a very well-loved copy of Engels, the report on England’s working class Feuilly recommended ages ago. Its cover is down, so he likely didn’t notice before, but he smiles at it now. Seeming distracted, he finally answers: “Around your fourth beer you grow attached to the idea of carrying me off. Best to just let you do your thing, I’ve learned. Like surrendering to a great ape instead of trying to convince it to spare you.” 

“Doesn’t sound at all like you minded, despite your haughty tone.” 

Feuilly says nothing, only clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips in a show of sternness. Bahorel is undeterred. He’s onto something, he thinks. In front of him stands a flustered Feuilly, and he has a strong suspicion why. All that’s left to do now is act.

“Feuilly, are you embarrassed because I’m right?” Bahorel straightens and wriggles towards the edge of the bed, uncaring of the sheet falling away. He’s sure his grin is more wolf than ape now. What does Feuilly think of that, he wonders? “Feuilly, do you like spending the night in my strong, comfortable arms?” 

“Put some clothes on, Fuckface.” Bahorel is met with a t-shirt to the face and a fleeing best friend. Okay, so that is not the way to go about it. Feuilly clearly is not one for talking this through. Not yet, anyway. 

“Have a nice day, Dickface,” he calls after him before he falls back into bed, smiling to himself. 

+

**Tuesday, 10:37PM**

Having taken the weekend to recover his senses if not his good sense, Bahorel invites Courfeyrac along for a night out when all of his other newly acquired housemates prove unwilling, begging leave for illness, or weariness, or simply because they are responsible adults that have jobs to attend, come the morning.

Courfeyrac, however, is an honorable friend who, despite his nine AM internship, shows himself willing to go ‘for a drink’, which the both of them know will turn into several by the time they arrive at their second bar and have not found Musichetta there either. He already knows she is working tonight, even texted her to make sure, and she had sent him a selfie in response, covering up the name-tag while flipping him off. “Damn that woman and her ingenious games,” Bahorel curses, more out of admiration than genuine frustration. These last weeks he has certainly been broadening his bar-horizons, if nothing else.

“Do you think I could bribe Combeferre to get it out of Joly?” Courfeyrac wonders, glancing skeptically at the concoction the bartender generously described as the ‘house margarita’.

“We tried that last week when he went out with me,” Bahorel dismisses. “Joly is holding fast, the pissant. As is Bossuet, for that matter. I even had Enjolras track his phone.”

“You know you’re only fanning Enjolras’ delusions of being a hacker when you call using the _Find my iPhone_ option ‘tracking’, right?” Courfeyrac grins, bravely having a sip of the sickening looking – and frankly smelling – drink. He demonstrates an admirable pokerface. “Why wasn’t I asked to go out with you guys last week?”

“One,” Bahorel holds up the corresponding amount of fingers, “It was ten thirty in the evening and you still hadn’t come home from the office, you’re a fucking bitch of a workaholic at this job of yours. And two – Combeferre said he needed a distraction. That is very much my purview. Now I don’t need to be a psych like Prouvaire to know you’re what he needs distracting from, so you wouldn’t have helped.”

Courfeyrac frowns. Only half of it seems to be due to the drink that he pushes away, scrunching up his nose, breaking at last. The other half is clearly Courfeyrac being less than tickled about having the only part of his life where he demands privacy dragged out for the general public to observe. “You’re all very invested in the ups and downs of my friendship with Combeferre. Lost a bet not a week ago, didn’t you?”

Bahorel grins, though he is still smarting from the sting of losing to someone as notoriously unlucky as Bossuet. The man in question had graciously donated his winnings to pay for their shared lunch on Sunday, but still, he had silently and then not-so-silently gloated for much of the day, which was a great deal more costly to Bahorel’s pride. 

“We’re just curious, is all.”

“You will have to remain so,” Courfeyrac makes a noise more befitting of a disgruntled old man than aspiring lawyer, before downing the margarita with more vigor, apparently newly determined to get smashed. “Because I am not going to speak of it with any of you before Combeferre has given me something to speak about.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“Time will tell,” Courfeyrac sighs. “The figurative ball is in his court anyway, never mind where my literal balls are or are not. I know better than to push. Suppose you could learn a thing or two from that.”

“Believe me, I’ve learned,” Bahorel snorts. “The last few months in particular, I’ve learned a lot about the superiority of honey over vinegar.”

Courfeyrac pauses, eyes sparkling, face amused. “Are you likening sweet Feuilly to a fly?”

Caught out, Bahorel resorts to stealing Courfeyrac’s drink and confirming that this is not the bar for them to settle for the evening. It also teaches him not to be too callous in needling Courfeyrac about Combeferre, as the man is no novice at sewing. Lesson learned, or whatever, he’s here to find Musichetta, and they’ve no hope of doing that in this shithole of a bar.

“You ready to leave?”

+

**Tuesday, 11:49PM**

By the time they decide to call it quits for the night Bahorel is quite content. He has a steady buzz running through his system, an unsteady gait to accompany it and the steadiest of friends by his side to lean on. It’s not even midnight yet. They’re doing a marvelous job of being responsible adults.

Unfortunately it then just so happens that someone unsavoury objects to the entangled way he and Courfeyrac are making their way home, whispering not-so-sweet nothings to one another – though they might not be whispering at all and only feel themselves to be. With alcohol impairing judgement Bahorel knows to be sub-par on even the best of days, he half-giggles, half says something to Courfeyrac, a passing fancy that takes root and grows faster than either man considered possible.

“D’you wanna, like, _really_ piss the homophobes off?”

Giggling from a glass too many himself, Courfeyrac goes on tippy toes, hands bracketing Bahorel’s face and lips laughing against Bahorel’s mouth. Even inebriated, Bahorel knows that he has to counterbalance Courfeyrac’s flinging of his body at him, putting his hands on his much smaller friends’ hips. He shares in Courfeyrac’s laughter and his lips for a while, enjoying the thought that they are sticking it to the man all the way up until someone jerks him roughly to the side and decks Courfeyrac in the face.

The buzz disappears in a split second.

As he watches Courfeyrac come up from being hunched over, wiping blood and spittle from his mouth, he knows he is not the only one keenly feeling the loss of pleasant vibes.

Police sirens are swift to follow, but Bahorel has already thrown several punches and – if he is not mistaken – broken a nose and dislocated a shoulder, though thankfully not his own. To his side, Courfeyrac has admirably squared up again, nudging Bahorel’s shoulder with his own as he has done during many a protest, assuring him of his presence and, in a way, grounding Bahorel’s more rampage-prone spirit. Nonetheless, the sudden arrival of police has Courfeyrac risking a glance over his shoulder, swearing very creatively for someone still bleeding from the mouth.

Several of their attackers beat a hasty retreat, (“It’s the police, disappear, run for it--” someone shouts) but they are still outnumbered, from what Bahorel can make out through one swollen eye and two eyes slightly impaired by spirits -- fighting and more conventionally purchasable. There were more of them than he initially thought. Only two or so hurled abuse at them earlier. He should have considered that there would be more vermin waiting in the shadows, shouldn’t have placed them in danger with such recklessness--

“We cannot get arrested, Baz, I’ll lose my job—”

“Speak for yourself?” Bahorel huffs as he yanks his knee up high to drive the air out of some unfortunate bigot’s lungs. That one probably thought he would have a grand old time heckling unsuspecting partygoers tonight. They were gathered outside of an establishment flying the rainbow flag, after all. 

“You there,” the all-too familiar face of their least favorite officer appears in his field of vision, steadily approaching with a handful of deputies. “Cease at once!”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac hisses, still a comforting presence at Bahorel’s shoulder, knowing that the familiarity of faces is a two-way street. “What now?”

“Now, my righteous friend,” Bahorel says to Courfeyrac, grinning with the confidence of having faced worse odds, “you run.”

And then he swings. By some lucky coincidence, the guy who had previously been standing across from him ducks out of the way, and his fist connects instead with Javert’s face, bringing forth a satisfying sound. What a great day it is shaping up to be. _That’s for breaking my arm, you twat_ , Bahorel thinks, but has the good sense to not say aloud. Won’t his uncle be proud of him for showing such restraint?

When the fight is broken up, once he is clapped in handcuffs that always rub his wrists raw, he still feels the continuous weight of Courfeyrac’s eyes on him and turns to seek them out. Bastard didn’t run. 

“You were supposed to run, you little shit,” Bahorel rasps, offering a weak grin.

“And leave you outnumbered five to one? Unlikely.” Courfeyrac scoffs, spitting blood out of his mouth. “Very fucking unlikely, you bastard.”

+

**Wednesday, 3:32AM**

“Add a tally for me,” Courfeyrac yawns, stretching out on the wooden bank in the cell while Bahorel works his belt buckle on the wall. “I’m in the lead, don’t cheat me.”

Gallow’s humor, Bahorel supposes. This is Courfeyrac putting on a brave, unbothered face to hide his panic that he has to be at work today, 9 AM sharp. From their previous stints in here, Bahorel knows they can expect it to take much longer.

“Your call didn’t go through?” Bahorel asks. Courfeyrac had been awfully quiet for a while before the sudden joke, presumably needing the minutes of privacy to rally his spirits.

“Prouvaire is literally always up at this hour, but for some reason today they decide not to answer their phone,” Courfeyrac bemoans, though it is clear he finds no actual fault with Prouvaire for this. “Yours?”

“My uncle was none-too-pleased,” Bahorel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I expect I’ll have that to deal with at family dinner on Saturday, but he’s working on it.”

“This is the uncle that made you think you wanted to be a lawyer for a while?”

“Fucking misguided, huh?”

“Dunno,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “You’d make a kickass one, I think. Heard Feuilly tell Enjolras about how you went off on Javert the last time he tried to take you in. He almost managed to hide his admiration by pretending to be annoyed. Of course, I say _almost_ , because--”

What’s Courfeyrac playing at now? There’s something in his eyes to suggest the bringing up of Feuilly was more than an attempt at distracting himself from his misery. Is he trying to find something out? Test the waters to see if Bahorel wants to talk?

He does want to talk, he concedes. But it is Feuilly he wants to talk to about _Bahorel & Feuilly _, not one of their many, well-meaning friends. It’s just that Feuilly has made it very clear how little he cares to have the topic elucidated. Someone hisses at them to be quiet. Footsteps leave the room soon thereafter. 

“Bastard's probably jerking himself off for a job well done right now,” Bahorel scoffs, trying to peer into the darkness beyond their cell, unable to spot anyone fitting the description of Javert. No one feels the need to watch their cell anymore; it’s almost like coming into your favorite bar as a regular. Only almost though, considering he can’t leave here and Musichetta always has an interest in throwing him out after midnight.

“You punched him in the face,” Courfeyrac chuckles. “I think he’s more likely to be nursing a split lip.”

“The camera feed will show that to have been an accident.”

“Serendipity,” Courfeyrac draws out the word, breaking off into chuckles that turn into groans. They’re both pretty banged up. “It makes me a bad person, maybe, but I always knew I would relish knowing you got him back for your arm. Hey, do you think we can get those tapes? I think the make-out session beforehand would sell really well.”

That tickles a painful laugh out of Bahorel as well. Courfeyrac laughs all the harder for seeing Bahorel try to hold in his laughter to go easy on his ribs, and in this odd manner they go back and forth, prodding at each other until, sighing heavily, Courfeyrac turns his head to the sky: “Jesus Christ, but we’re a pair of idiots, aren’t we?”

+

**Wednesday, 7:12AM**

It’s much too early for either of them to have gotten sufficient rest, but Bahorel wakes up when Courfeyrac does, if only because he can no longer use Courfeyrac’s butt as a pillow when he wriggles out from under him. At least this time Courfeyrac had the mercy not to fart on him and claim there was no other way of waking the beast.

“What are you doing here?” Courfeyrac’s soft, unguarded voice – still rough from uneasy sleep – is a fair clue as to who stands before him. Bahorel decides to feign sleep a while longer.

“Came to collect you two,” Combeferre responds, drily adding, “stop pretending to be asleep, Bahorel.”

Bahorel cracks open one cautious eye before he finds one is all he can comfortably open, actually, as the other one has swollen to such a degree as to make any exertion of the muscles on the right side of his face unpleasant. “What a sight for literally sore eyes you are, Combeferre.”

Normally, Courfeyrac would laugh at that, but now he just looks crestfallen, big eyes turned on Combeferre. “You’re supposed to be at a lecture right now. You have an exam in _two hours,_ dar _-_ -”

“We were supposed to have breakfast beforehand, but you didn’t show up and I couldn’t reach you on your phone. Did you really expect me to focus on a lecture on medical imaging techniques instead of getting you? Breakfast is an institution - satisfaction is demanded when you try to weasel out of it.”

Perhaps Courfeyrac had, Bahorel considers. It’s not the first time Combeferre has come to collect them, and not just once has Combeferre fussed like a concerned mother about Courfeyrac ‘seeing what happens’ when his patience runs out and he doesn’t come by.

“How did you even know I’d been arrested? I couldn’t reach Prouvaire, and both of us--”

“You were out with Bahorel,” Combeferre deadpans, raising one brow, condemnation and amusement both clearly coming across, “forgive me for thinking that was how a night with him is bound to end.”

“Hey,” Bahorel protests, though he knows he has little chance to convincingly deny it. Historical evidence against him is too strong. There is precedent, his uncle would say.

“Was I wrong?” Combeferre continues to preside in judgement over them like some fucking deity. Then he returns his attention to Courfeyrac: “I called in sick for you at work.”

“And Lamarque just accepted that I was sick? I’ve never missed a day - I’ve worked with a concussion before.”

“Of course not,” Combeferre sighs, “I’m a very bad liar when I’m worried, Courfeyrac. He called me on it right away and asked me to inquire when you would be coming to see him today.”

Right, the job. That damned job. Bahorel rather uselessly wishes Courfeyrac had run when he told him to, even if the night in jail was much more pleasant with company. 

It is not lost on Bahorel how disappointed Courfeyrac now looks, though he admirably rallies. That speaks volumes of his disposition, Bahorel thinks.

“Now, perhaps?” Courfeyrac cranes his neck after he has visibly considered that question, calling out, “Hey inspector, may I go?” to Javert, who busily and furiously types at something on his desktop, maybe immersed in finding errors in today’s crossword puzzle or whatever, not even looking at him as he answers in the negative.

“Well,” declares Courfeyrac, “there goes that then.”

He keeps a very straight face throughout the delivery, which Bahorel finds commendable. Bahorel, he cracks up at the first word, when he tells jokes. Unfortunately the impeccable quality of such delivery means when he laughs hard now, he is punished hard for it by the pain shooting into his body. Courfeyrac fares much the same. They commiserate via a single look, under Combeferre’s displeased and watchful glare.

“I was told your arrest was merely a big misunderstanding,” Combeferre raises his voice slightly. With a very angry expression, Javert nods, getting up at last and setting them free, having obviously needed to print something that he now shoves into Courfeyrac’s hand unceremoniously. Usually that would be something to the effect of when they need to appear in court. There’s some grumbling about the ‘other parties involved’ all having previous indictments and a history of violence against minorities, and that no one is pressing charges, all of which Bahorel hardly hears over the absolute pleasure of being in the right, of getting to walk out of here and rub it in Javert’s face, which he does not fail to do.

“Told you I’m the good guy, Inspector,” Bahorel grins. Even as Combeferre dutifully shepherds him out of the room, he feels Javert might yet snap and snarl something at him that would give Bahorel even greater satisfaction. As it is, Combeferre behaves as something of a spoilsport this fine morning.

When Bahorel is handed his phone and personal effects again, the day is made sweeter still by a few messages from Feuilly that, though curt, warm his heart. _Hope you’re not too badly hurt, asshole. Next time, call me & not your stupid fucking uncle. _

And then, sent several minutes later:

_I had work or I would have picked you up._

Almost as if Feuilly had warred with himself for a long time, only a few minutes before Combeferre finally arrived to pick them up: _Tell me what you want for dinner._

_+_

**Thursday, 6:20AM**

After waking up way too early to be delivered from jail, Bahorel had fallen asleep quite literally after Feuilly brought him dinner, before which he had also been mostly asleep in his bed, which he realizes because the empty take-out box is still on his chest. It’s not unlikely he simply scarfed it down and then quit the waking world. The sheets next to him are still warm and smell of sweat unlike Bahorel’s own, and when he comes to himself more fully, he hears the shower running.

One look at the alarm clock has him groaning, but Feuilly has a long day ahead of him and Bahorel already denied him company last night by being too exhausted to speak, so he hauls ass out of bed with the intent of retreating back under the covers as soon as Feuilly leaves, clutching one of the sheets around his shoulders like some sick person in a medieval drama series.

“Morning sunshine,” he calls out as he enters the bathroom, delighted in the surprised shriek that leaves Feuilly, although his modesty is fully preserved – they invested in a very good shower curtain. Momentarily tempted to test how well he and Feuilly laid the pipes by letting the water run, Bahorel settles instead on relieving himself and dealing with the evidence once Feuilly is done with the water. He’s not that much of an asshole – not to Feuilly, at least, and not this early in the morning.

“You better not be taking a piss right now,” Feuilly threatens. Already, Bahorel’s day is made much better. He cannot quite help the grin that comes with annoying Feuilly, just a little bit. Within reason, he always tells himself. He annoys the man _within reason_. It does both of them good, he maintains. The water turns off, Bahorel flushes, and Feuilly unleashes a few curses that can be summarized as annoyance for the liberties Bahorel takes in their shared bathroom.

“Turn around,” Feuilly orders.

Bahorel obeys, though not without comment. “I’ve had quite enough of facing the wall, thank you very much.” Feuilly’s snort is followed by several sounds from the shower curtain, and then the familiar sounds of Feuilly getting dressed for the day. Bahorel waits patiently, as the both of them know that there are lines he will not cross. With Courfeyrac, or probably anyone else in their friend group, he would make some comment about it being nothing he hasn’t seen before, or whatever, and though it truly is nothing he hasn’t seen before, Feuilly is particular about his privacy, and what he had seen had been an accident they both regret. So he stays silent.

Feuilly’s arms around him and his still slightly wet chin and damp hair across his back are something of a surprise, therefore. “You’re a piece of shit, getting arrested left right and center without telling me.”

“If I said I didn’t go out seeking trouble you’d have me for a liar,” Bahorel grunts.

“Trouble always seems to find you,” Feuilly agrees. After seemingly hanging on the edge of saying something for several awfully drawn out seconds, he adds, “I was fucking worried.”

“Sorry, man,” Bahorel breathes out. His heart’s set aflutter by so simple an admission -- one he knew to be true, one that normally goes unsaid. He chooses to take it as a sign of Feuilly’s waning reluctance, that his best friend is beginning to open up to the idea of there being something more, something worth exploring between them.

“I finally read that letter I got,” Feuilly clears his throat, stepping away from Bahorel almost as if he thinks physically removing himself from the moment of intimacy will negate it after it has already passed. No dice, Bahorel feels very intimately known now. “On Tuesday, that is. Had nothing to do in the evening, cause of you being gone and all. Would have told you earlier, but you had to go and break the law.”

He requires some additional prompting before he reveals his plans: “My grandmother is settled with some of my other distant kinsfolk in the Midi. I’m catching a train today, after work. I don’t think I’ll be back before Sunday, but you never know. ”

“Well, then I hope it goes well.” Bahorel has a smile for Feuilly, thrown over his shoulder. Then, testing the waters a little, he adds something to the effect of “I’ll miss you.” It’s mumbled, followed by an awkward glance and way too much scratching of his neck to be justifiable as normal. Look, Bahorel is not a man of great sentimental outbursts, plain and simple. Feuilly isn’t either, clearly evidenced by the way his face goes red and he stammers out a few profanities before he makes his excuses to leave for the day, though not before he pulls Bahorel into a hasty hug, during which he claps him on the shoulder with much less manly force than he is wont to.

+

**Thursday, 8:43AM**

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Bahorel asks Bossuet when he makes his way down to the kitchen at a more appropriate hour. The incessant chirping of springtime’s birds has made sleeping until noon impossible after he was already somewhat conscious. Several hours of tossing and turning and then fucking around on his phone have proved enough. He needs food, now.

“I’ve decided to retire early on my winnings from last week,” Bossuet retorts, hastily putting his coffee cup down after he takes an overly-bold sip of still steaming liquid, sticking his tongue out and making noises that rather make up for the salt he just rubbed into Bahorel’s metaphorical wounds. Speaking of wounds – “You do look dreadful,” comments Joly. “When Courfeyrac told me I ‘should see the other guy’ I assumed he didn’t mean you.”

Bahorel picks his way through the overflowing sink and dishwasher, looking for his favorite mug and finding it still speckled with the remnants of the cheer-up hot chocolate that Prouvaire made for him when he came home yesterday. It turned out to be more than fifty percent alcohol, but Bahorel had not minded in the slightest. What else do they have a bar-load of liquor for if not for Jehan Prouvaire’s absolute wrecker of a Hot Choco-Baileys? “I’m not the one with the dislocated shoulder or broken nose, so it’s safe to say the homos won that fight. Why’s the kitchen looking so shitty?”

“No one cleans up after themselves in this pigsty of a house,”says Grantaire as he makes ready to leave the place. It’s a ploy, clearly designed to engender a debate so that no one notices Enjolras coming down the stairs after him, looking ready to go out himself. Presumably with Grantaire, if the confused furrowing of brows is anything to go by.

“Half of this stuff is yours, I’d bet,” Bahorel snorts. “You’re probably the fucker that made mac and cheese and let it crust the pan.”

“Ew, you made mac and cheese in a pan?” Joly ruffles his nose. “Filthy heathen, begone from these premises.”

“Can I live?” Grantaire puts a hand to his chest. “Why am I being attacked simply for pointing out the abysmal state of our common area? Is my freedom of speech so restricted? Must I break out the _Don’t Tread On Me_ hoodie?”

“Where are you off to, Enjolras? ” Bossuet wonders, because he has cottoned on to how unlikely it is that Grantaire and Enjolras have separate engagements requiring them to leave the house at the same time, when one is currently not a student and the other is doing his level best to avoid his professor and anything even tangentially related to his studies. Yesterday, Bahorel knocked on Grantaire’s door only to find the man obsessively staring at line art, as if trying to will a full painting into existence simply by thinking of it. When Bahorel had voiced the thought, Grantaire had agreed with an easy smile that belied deeper troubles and gone on a long-winded speech about force of will and manifesting art through energy, but Bahorel had been too knackered to push in further. Maybe he’ll do that later. He has nothing at all to do anyway, since Feuilly decided to leave the city without giving him an itemized list of renovations that still need to be done.

“We’re outsourcing breakfast,” Enjolras comments drily, sweeping a very telling look over the state of the kitchen. “Grantaire told me of a vegan breakfast café that opened while I was abroad.”

With a grin that can only be called shit-eating, Grantaire turns on his heel and walks right out of the door, seeking to avoid every pair of eyes in the room currently on him; which is to say: all of them, save for Pontmercy’s, who has up until now sat quietly at the kitchen counter, shoveling cereal into his mouth and smiling nervously or nodding along whenever Bossuet looked at him during the course of the previous conversation.

Now it looks as though he is getting ready to say something.

“Perhaps we could consider making a cleaning schedule?”

Almost as if on cue, both Bossuet and Bahorel start jeering. Bahorel flicks a piece of chocolate at Pontmercy. It lands squarely in his bowl, splashing the counter. “That smells like communism,” Prouvaire judges as they enter the kitchen, having evidently just overheard the last part on their way down from the tower.

“Not in my Capitalist Hellscape of a communal house,” Joly grins, shaking his head. “Here we die in our filth like men and not-men.”

Joly then pulls Prouvaire aside, adding something about calling a house meeting and the general need for organization, which Prouvaire nods sagely at, but that exchange is lost on Pontmercy amidst the uproar of the kitchen. It serves for merriment all around – saving for Pontmercy, who is plainly just mortified, shoveling cereal into his mouth and keeping his eyes down.

+

**Thursday, 9:24PM**

Feuilly being gone unexpectedly highlights to Bahorel how skewed his perception of how much time he spends with his friends really is, because, despite the house being mostly full, he feels oddly alone. That will not do. Bahorel is not one for moping. He leaves that to more capable personalities in their house. This quest for entertainment leads him to Courfeyrac’s room, where he pours over a case with him for longer than he has concerned himself with the law in the past five years combined.

“You know literally everything, Bahorel, why on earth did you drop out?” Courfeyrac praises distractedly, furiously scribbling notes onto corners of pages Bahorel’s own bold strokes would not have been contained by. 

“Don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing that, I guess,” Bahorel reflects more soberly than Courfeyrac’s tone called for, but he feels the truth of it in his bones and therefore needs to get it out. “I like working for Feuilly. Also, it's much easier to lose your approbation than to lose your job with your best friend, when you get arrested or whatever. How did things go with Lamarque?”

Truth be told, Bahorel feels a little guilty for that. It was his idea that led to physical measures rather than just slurs. If Courfeyrac lost his internship because of him--

“He was less than pleased, but I think the state of my face went a long way to garner sympathy. Made me look like the victim and not the fool who jumped into a fight after his drunk friend was in the mood to throw hands.” 

“Whoops.”

“Nah, they had it coming, man,” Courfeyrac dismisses, split lip not hindering a smile. “You doing anything tomorrow?”

“Not going bar-hopping with you, though I would very much like to. Saturdays are for family dinners, and I have some explaining to do to my uncle. And my mom, come to think of it.” 

“Some other time, then,” Courfeyrac agrees. “Not that I mind – means I can stay longer at the office.”

“Ain’t no rest for the just, eh?”

“None at all, but willingly so,” Courfeyrac claims, decisively.

+

**Saturday, 5:22PM**

Uncle James corners him the second the table is cleared, inviting him outside under the pretense of a shared cigar.  “Fine import,” James cajoles, extending the invitation to his brother-in-law while being perfectly aware that Bahorel’s father is disgusted by all tobacco products in strict opposition to his French upbringing. “Come and try it with us, Luc!”

“Another time,” says Luc, turning back to the dishes he is scrubbing. 

“You’re very lucky you were released before I had to break the news to your mother,” James sighs once they are outside, not offering his cigar for common use but rather hoarding it with a grin that tells Bahorel this uncharacteristic selfishness is very much intended as punishment. “Punching police officers now, is it?”

“Not on purpose,” Bahorel grins. “Intent is everything. Isn’t that what you always tell me?”

James scoffs, shaking his head. “You’d have been a good lawyer, Jean.”

“Maybe,” Bahorel concedes, thinking of spending his days like Courfeyrac, with almost no time to spare for those he loves. For anyone less determined to be social, it would mean complete isolation from anyone outside of work. He wouldn’t see Feuilly as often -- Christ, would he ever? Feuilly wouldn’t even look at him if he went to work for some big firm like Uncle James. And then he’d be miserable working sixty hours a week, suing for copyright infringements to make six figures a year. What on earth for? 

“You could sit your exams in the fall if you so chose, you know.” James drops that bomb as casually as anything, taking a drag from his priceless, very annoying cigar. “I had the chance to chat with Professor Zéphine the other day when she asked me to come in for a guest lecture.”

Shit. 

“You told your parents you flunked her classes, Jean. Why on earth would you lie?”

Why, indeed? He likes Uncle James -- the man’s class, a real brick you can call anytime the law catches up with you, knowing he’ll come get you out of a sense of obligation and general goodwill both -- but he wouldn’t understand. He’s caught up too strongly in his Americanized dream of proving that people like them can make it in this Western world. The name’s been adapted long ago. He’s adopted a lifestyle his grandparents couldn’t even begin to imagine when they got on a boat in the seventies. 

“Gave me an excuse to drop out,” Bahorel mutters. 

“She praised you very highly to me,” James continues. “Told me she was sure you would make partner before thirty-five.”

“As always, I hate to disappoint,” Bahorel says, “but it seems I simply cannot help it.”

“Jean--”

“There you are, dears,” his mother’s voice cuts through the awkward haze that the conversation had been pulled to. “There’s fruit in the kitchen.”

“Can’t wait,” Bahorel smiles, grateful and desperate for the line his mother unintentionally threw. 

“Luc brought pitahaya,” she gushes. “There was a fantastic bargain near that unsavoury metro station. You know the one, dear--”

“Jaurès,” Bahorel nods, sagely. 

“You know, Jean,” says his mother, grabbing his arm as they cross the patio to go back inside, “I wonder why you did not bring your Feuilly, today. I hope you aren’t fighting.”

“He’s not my Feuilly, Mom,” Bahorel mutters, feeling embarrassed. 

“Then why is he always at family dinner, eh?” His mother makes a displeased face. It’s one he remembers from his childhood, when it most often foretold the sudden appearance of a slipper in her hand, always threateningly raised and shaken about but never thrown. Her voice drops lower. “His adoptive parents called me on Wednesday.”  Bahorel throws her a cautioning look.  “I said nothing,” she assures him immediately. “But I wanted to talk to him about it. So I hope you aren’t fighting.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Bahorel soothes. “He's out of town, I'll invite him for next week.”

“Will you have talked to him by then?” 

“Mom.”

“Pah!” She makes a dismissive gesture. “Don’t pretend with me. I know what it is you want from him.”

“Mom!”

“What? You think I do not know when my son is mooning over someone? I birthed you! You hang off every word from his lips when he’s here. It’s worse than with that girl Courtney you brought home one break. She was lovely, don’t get me wrong. But your Feuilly--”

“Seriously, _Mom_.” Bahorel’s neck is burning hot. He looks at his feet. At the sound of soft laughter, he looks back up at his mother, into her beautifully lined face. She raises a hand to pat his cheek, fondly. 

“Ah, I won’t press you any more. Just make sure to bring him next week.” 

With his hand essentially forced, Bahorel decides that delaying what has been becoming ever more inevitable is futile. He begins to form a plan. 

+

**Sunday, 4:47PM**

“Why are you pacing?” Courfeyrac asks, sliding a piece of cucumber into his mouth with the a criminally intrigued expression on his face. Combeferre sets a plate down in front of him - omelette, from the look of it. Why doesn’t Bahorel ever get omelettes from friends? Well, he supposes he never asked. Maybe he should. 

“I should think that would be obvious, darling,” observes Combeferre, “Feuilly is coming home today.”

“You shut your mouth,” Bahorel warns, feeling more on edge than usual. It is not dread, exactly. He cannot describe it. He longs to be reunited with Feuilly - he literally cannot wait any longer to see his goofy-ass half-smile, but at the same time, he knows that tonight could backfire entirely. It’s unlikely. Bahorel isn’t one for statistics, but what risk assessment he has done has left him quite confident about his odds. Still--

Combeferre smiles into his coffee, then goes back to watching Courfeyrac inhale the omelette. He looks to be in a hurry. 

“Are you going into the office on a Sunday?” Bahorel asks, aghast. 

Courfeyrac does not even look ashamed. He only nods before continuing to dig in. After fishing out something from his messenger bag, he frowns. Thumping a rock-hard bagel onto the counter, he then offers it to Pontmercy. Carrot tops looks up from his reading - a mandarin textbook, good Christ! - and smiles, entirely delighted at the prospect of days old bagel. 

“It’s only half-stale, I think. You can dunk it into your hot chocolate.”

“Thanks, Félix!” 

Courfeyrac squeezes Combeferre’s hand in silent thanks for the food, presumably, before getting up and putting his clothes in order. The shiner on his face looks well-treated, even if it remains alarmingly red when contrasted with his impeccably styled suit. His lip is dark red where it was split. Bahorel looks worse, he thinks. Is that the look to confess your love to your best friend? Probably not, but waiting longer won't do him any good. That's the fastest way to create a cycle of putting it off, he thinks. 

“ I’ll come back with those textbooks you wanted, alright?” Courfeyrac says, ruffling Pontmercy’s hair.

“Thank you, _Daddy_ ,” Pontmercy grits out, hiding his face in his hand.  Bahorel guffaws, looking around the room frantically, begging someone to notice what just came out of Pontmercy’s mouth - Grantaire and Prouvaire are lazing on the couches, maybe they heard it, too. A single look from Combeferre cuts him off. 

“Don’t piss yourself in excitement,” he counsels, “Pontmercy lost a bet.”

  
“What, no?” Courfeyrac protests loudly as he pulls his coat on. “Why would you say that? That’s so wrong. Marius _always_ calls me that.”

_ Caught my last transfer, _ reads a text from Feuilly that freshly popped up on his phone. _Well_ , Bahorel thinks, trying to hype himself up, _almost time to face the music._

_+_

**Sunday, 7:25PM**

He knocks on Feuilly’s door after he has duly welcomed the man and sent him off to a restorative shower. He'd been smiling, more serene than Bahorel has seen him in ages, so he has to assume the reunion in the Midi went well. Maybe Feuilly will tell him about it later on, maybe not. There are other orders of business to address first. Today is possibly the first time ever he knocks from the hallway, rather than banging on their shared bathroom door and shouting obscenities. Bahorel feels it fits the general theme of many new firsts they will hopefully be having this evening. Chief among them a conversation about feelings. 

“Where the fuck were you hiding that?” Feuilly asks, skeptically, when Bahorel pulls a new candle from his jeans pocket and places it in the old wine bottle Feuilly insists on using for decoration like he never got over his 2014 art-hoe phase. “How do you fit a candle into those tight-ass pants of yours? Do they even have pockets?”

“Was it in my pocket or was it actually in nature’s pocket? No one knows.”

"You're foul." Condemned, h e then attempts to make Feuilly forget this very lame joke by presenting him with takeout food, the most effective bribery for such delicate matters. If not properly persuaded into amnesia, Feuilly will tease him about such matters for years and years. 

“I have something to tell you,” Bahorel begins, carefully, once Feuilly has stuffed his mouth full of peking duck and cannot immediately shut him down. Not before he has said his piece, at least. 

“Oh no,” says Feuilly, disproving Bahorel’s assumption that just because he does not usually speak with his mouth full it means he will not.

“What?” Bahorel backtracks, confused. 

“Sorry, I meant: Oh? Does this have something to do with your recent arrest? Courfeyrac looks banged up, doesn’t he?” 

“Um, no,” Bahorel laughs. “He’s - he doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” It wasn’t what he meant to say at all, come to that. Christ, he’s never this nervous. 

“Feuilly, mate,” Bahorel tries again. “I’m trying to say something here. Shut up for a second, yeah?” Feuilly blinks at him, a little surprised at how serious Bahorel is being, maybe. Time to be brave. He can do that. Easy as anything. 

“I--” he nods as he says this, drawing the word out and suddenly unable to meet Feuilly’s eye. “ _ Likeyou _ .”

“Come again?”

“You heard me,” Bahorel mutters, staring resolutely at the puddle of hoisin sauce on the plate between them. Feuilly’s his best friend. They talk about everything between all the things they don’t talk about. This should not be so daunting. 

“I genuinely didn’t.”

“I _like_ you,” he says again, enunciating each word properly. This time, he steals a quick glance at Feuilly’s face before looking at the plates of food again. He’s barely touched his own container, and isn’t that a novelty? Something to laugh at, in the future. The thought makes him smile. "You know?"

“Are you joking?”

“No,” Bahorel huffs. 

“Are you messing with me?”

“No,” he repeats. 

“You’re serious?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bahorel draws his lips into a thin line. “Deadass, man. I don’t know. This is the part where you’re supposed either throw yourself at me or tell me to fuck off.”

Feuilly’s composure breaks. He starts to giggle. His expression of disbelief melts away into one that Bahorel optimistically interprets as pleased. Maybe smug? Like he said, he’s not good at this.  “Thanks man, I appreciate it,” Bahorel sighs, sitting back in defeat. A moment later, Feuilly tugs at his elbow. He feels Feuilly’s fingers slowly make their way up to his shoulder, settling finally on his cheek. 

“Hey,” Feuilly greets him softly when their eyes meet again. “I’ve always liked you, you shithead.”

“No you didn’t,” Bahorel protests immediately, still feeling slightly confrontational. “You hated me.”

“Bullshit I hated you,” Feuilly laughs. “Okay, honestly, maybe I did until you stopped pulling my pigtails.”

“There were no more pigtails to pull.” Bahorel offers a careful smile. He’s relieved to see Feuilly reciprocate, even as the implications of what has been said have not quite hit him yet. “Also, you kicked me in the balls. That was a low blow and a strong manifestation of childhood hatred.” 

“I kicked you in the balls because you kept chasing me around at recess.”

“I wanted a kiss,” Bahorel pouts. “You’ll notice I respectfully withdrew my romantic attentions after you screamed at me like a banshee.”

“Only to return to teasing me.”

“Seven year old boys are socialized to do dumb shit, mate.” Bahorel runs a hand through his hair, managing to sneak up on Feuilly’s hand, still resting against his cheek. He presses a kiss to his wrist, testing the waters. “I apologized, didn’t I?”

“Oh, you did more than that,” Feuilly reminds him, fondly. 

“Beating up the guys who bullied you was a matter of pride and I wear that badge of four week suspension with honor.”

“I’ll have you know I don’t condone violence,” Feuilly says sternly. 

“Bullshit, you ball-kicker. I bet you thought it was very sexy of me.”

Feuilly presses a soft kiss to his lips. He leans in and back so quickly that Bahorel does not have enough time to react. “There’s your kiss,” he whispers. “Worth the wait?”

“Some kiss I get after over a decade and a ha---” Feuilly cuts him off by throwing himself at him. Bahorel doesn’t feel the need to say anything in response. 


	7. Seven. "Ya'arbunee"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On God I Am Going To Finish This.

Seven. "Ya'arburnee." (arabic)

Definition: _literally - 'may you bury me', the speaker does not want to live a single day without the addressed._

* * *

**Monday, 02:01AM**

In medical school they teach acting classes under the name of psychology and sociology. Eighteen year old Combeferre had walked into his first class years ago, fully-prepared to learn how to read a person’s innermost thoughts from only their facial expression, and had instead sat through a whole miserable week of the very boring kind of doctor-patient roleplay before he was assigned a new partner that promptly changed everything. Joly had taken one long, skeptical look at him, diagnosed him with ‘ _ imminent exitus due to tedium _ ’ and cured him with a laugh not five seconds later. Gone was the self-inflicted misery of the first week of university, when he was too busy missing Enjolras and Courfeyrac to make new friends. Joly had caught up to him after that psychology class and asked him if he wanted to go out for drinks. 

“Oh, I’m flattered-”

Joly had squinted at the ridiculous nametag the psychology professor had insisted on, and then back at Combeferre: “listen,  _ Combeferre,  _ I’m asking you to get shitfaced with me and my bestie because you made not one but two very good puns in there. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

It swiftly became apparent to eighteen-year old Combeferre that just because he thought he had always been able to read his best friend’s face -  _ thought _ being the operative word here, because Courfeyrac had shaken the foundations upon which his world had been built only three months earlier before swiftly jumping on a train with Enjolras two days later - it did not mean that this ability could easily be extended to hypothetical patients. 

The actual benefit of that psychology class was the stoic impression he had to perfect trying not to crack up at Joly’s continued antics, which means that now his surprise does not show on his face when he bumps into Courfeyrac in the semi-darkness of the communal living room. If ever there was a silver lining!

“Good evening,” says Courfeyrac, gravely. Parisian traffic doesn’t let up even at this time of the night. Someone’s cracked the windows to air out the lingering smell of Bossuet’s semi-legal church bake sale brownies, and the sound of passing cars is surprisingly loud. (That is to say one batch is legal and the other, which he will enjoy with his pastor, is not.) “Come here often?”

“When I’m desperate.”

“Oh, I like ‘em desperate.” It’s almost a purr, what comes from Courfeyrac’s mouth. On anyone else it would be cause enough for Combeferre to tuck tail and run. As with festering wounds, so with personality traits - Combeferre avoids slime when he can, and if that means he will never be a dermatologist, so be it. Courfeyrac swiftly drops the act, however. He’s not one to hold captive an unwilling audience. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“This is yours, is it?” There’s a joke about private property on the tip of his tongue, but it’s two AM. He wants to sleep, and there’s no telling if it would land or instead lead Courfeyrac on an hour-long podcast-like rant on twenty-first century definitions of what is considered private property. 

_ (“ _ That’s  _ personal  _ property, Combeferre!”

“The hypothetical woods you spoke of would not be personal property, would they?” 

“Maybe if you actually read theory you’d know.”

He can imagine it clearly, and so he avoids it. It was hard enough convincing Courfeyrac not to overwhelm poor Pontmercy with his opinions when they were first assigned to be roommates. Enjolras, however, does not stick to the same principle of waiting to be asked before he preaches, and so on that very same skype call he had begun The Education of Marius Pontmercy, which had lead to some very long-winded conversations at the breakfast table the next morning.)

“I am but a humble traveler in exile, my friend,” Courfeyrac laments, waving his fist to and fro. There’s a bottle of wine in one of them - still unopened. It looks expensive. Probably confiscated from Bahorel for his crimes against common decency, like most luxury goods in this house. Or perhaps, Combeferre considers when he spots the little note tucked against the label, an apology for getting him arrested last week. Courfeyrac’s face is still in one of the many stages of healing. Jehan had made a joke about Courfeyrac sporting the pride flag in defiance of the blatantly homophobic attackers. Combeferre had not been able to see the humor in it. Courfeyrac still winces while brushing his teeth. 

Honesty - Combeferre hadn’t needed a psychology class to be taught - is the best policy. “My roof isn’t finished yet,” he says. “I was hoping I could crash with you.”

They’re not being honest, Combeferre thinks. Not entirely. He’s pretending like they haven’t been sharing a room every single night since Combeferre’s first in the house. Courfeyrac is pretending not to be aware that there is any significance to it. 

Perhaps there is not. 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

He doesn’t talk about it. Courfeyrac is the person he talks to about everything - and precisely about this he can’t talk with Courfeyrac. Nor can he talk to the rest of their friend group. That would only mean Courfeyrac got the news second-hand, which would be worse. Not many of them keep the secrets they agree to.

Every time he considers sitting Courfeyrac down  _ to talk,  _ he’s eighteen again and finds out he really has no fucking clue what goes on in Courfeyrac’s mind at any given moment. Eighteen and afraid of messing everything up. 

“And you are always a welcome sight in my bed,” Courfeyrac assures him, “except my exile is in truth a sexile - Feuilly and Bahorel have enviable stamina and only one refractory period between them.” He waves the bottle again. “This time, at least, Bahorel was courteous enough to give me a warning ahead of time.”

“Where are you headed then?”

“There’s a very rugged-chic kind of couch in the laundry room.” Courfeyrac’s fingertip finds Combeferre’s nose with astounding accuracy. “Room enough for two, innit, if you don’t fancy getting wet, luv.”

“Are you English, now?”

“I’ll be honest, darling,” hiccups Courfeyrac. “This is  _ not _ my first bottle. Please excuse my very Marx-post-pub-crawl level wit.” Of course - Bahorel does not do things by halves. Courfeyrac was probably given an assorted box of several nice wines. 

“Ah.”

“Yep.” Courfeyrac smiles again, then walks past Combeferre with a swagger of his hips that looks exaggerated. It may in truth just be his way of counterbalancing in a spinning room. “Coming?”

“I’ll grab some blankets,” Combeferre calls after him. 

“Good idea, I’ll grab some lube.”

It’s a common enough joke. He’s heard him make that joke to Grantaire, even. It means nothing. It might have meant something, once upon a time. 

**Monday, 02:23AM**

He doesn’t stop at blankets. Combeferre also gathers their pillows, and then leaves Courfeyrac’s room to grab a fresh pair of underwear from his own room, where a steady drip is filling three strategically placed buckets. There’s a fine assortment of novelty condoms Bahorel gifted him for his last birthday tucked next to his neat rows of undergarments, an underhanded attempt by his friend to suss out if Combeferre did, in fact, have a sex life or if medical school kept him too busy. Joly had shut down the conversation when Bahorel had asked him, and for weeks on end Bahorel could be heard complaining to Musichetta’s bartop about the non-compliance of medical students in his very important studies. 

It had culminated in the question  _ does Combeferre fuck  _ being scrawled on the drinks specials chalkboard. Now he considers chucking the whole stupid box of condoms into Bahorel’s room - they must be burning through a lot from the way they’ve been going at it. 

He looks at those ridiculous condoms with contempt for one final time before he makes his way downstairs. Someone’s laundry is tumbling about in the washing machine. Courfeyrac is wrestling with the couch cushions, looking over his shoulder at Combeferre and beaming when he sees his own pillow has been brought. The whole scene is heartbreakingly beautiful despite - or perhaps because - of the mildewy smells that linger in the room. There’s something sweeter though, mingling with the bad odour. 

“Wine for you?”

“Yes, thank you. Are those scented candles?”

“The lightbulb burned out,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “Jehan and I made a bunch some time ago. Thought you might not want to be entirely in the dark.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“Aren’t I just?” 

A while later, Courfeyrac shifts in his arms to say: “Ten to nothing that’s Enjolras’ laundry. No one else leaves their pocket change rattling around.”

Combeferre laughs more than he normally would - what can he say, it’s very good wine and he’s very tired. He had his suspicions the laundry machine wasn’t supposed to sound like that, but he’s been hauling his clothes to his grandmothers’ place these past weeks - the communal detergent isn’t the one he likes, and no one seems to have ever cleaned where you’re supposed to put it. Someone should get on that, and the kitchen as well, while they’re at it. “He’ll break that thing.”

“Grantaire said he broke the boarding school laundromat,” Courfeyrac yawns. “Judging by how red in the face our dear Enjolras went I’d say there’s a good story to it.”

“Well, no doubt he got up to mischief - we certainly did while he was away.” It’s the alcohol - it makes him brave when otherwise he would keep a tight lid on anything relating to the parts of their shared history more open to interpretation, heedless of the pressure that builds in the chamber. 

“That was mischief?” Courfeyrac yawns. “I thought you said it was  _ practice _ .” He says it with such a beautiful smile, but Courfeyrac is teasing, while Combeferre’s thoughts spiral. At sixteen, the request to  _ practice  _ was innocently motivated enough - Combeferre had meant to ask the very beautiful  _ Genevieve  _ in his advanced biology class on a date, and he thought it the best scientific course to conduct some studies on post-dinner-post-movie interactions on her doorstep. (In the end, Genevieve very kindly broke up with him after a happy seven month sojourn as a couple.) But does Courfeyrac think about graduation, sometimes? Does he remember  _ that _ day when Combeferre alludes to what might have been? It’s impossible to tell. If he does, those thoughts are buried somewhere too deep for Combeferre to see. “I’ve always wondered about them.”

“Grantaire and Enjolras?”

“Yeah,” his voice is soft, barely audible. Combeferre feels the words tickle the skin of his throat. “There’s definitely something there. Maybe just potential, but you know, that’s still a definite something.”

“Some might say the same about us,” he blurts out, regretting it immediately. 

“Oh, I’ve always wondered about us as well,” Courfeyrac chuckles. The words flow from his mouth easily - there is no trace of any sort of tension, no hint of buried feelings or a soured heart. It stings. That’s selfish of Combeferre - he ought to be glad that Courfeyrac moved on. He  _ made _ him move on, after all. What kind of friend would he be if he wished Courfeyrac felt differently now? 

“You do?” 

Selfish. He cannot help asking, however. His mind is scientific, it ever longs for answers. He pauses his ministrations of Courfeyrac’s hair and barely stops himself from holding his breath. There’s no need for that. “Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, devastatingly steady, “you  _ know  _ I have. I know you know.”

He doesn’t need to mention graduation by name. It’s obvious to the both of them - the aftermath of that day has lingered in both of their minds these past years - and it would be unfair to their combined emotional intelligence to pretend otherwise. That doesn’t mean, however, that he needs to take the lid off the pressure chamber right this instant. The results might be catastrophic.

(Courfeyrac had caught up with him at a run while someone was leading a procession of eighteen-year olds clad in fancy dresses and tuxedos to the club rented for the occasion. He’d been tugged away by Courfeyrac’s sweaty hand and gone willingly. They intended to stay up and party until sunrise, a little detour was nothing - they’d miss nothing. He’d swallowed deeply from the flask handed to him and looked down into Courfeyrac’s devastatingly beautiful eyes. It can’t have been the first time he noticed it, but it was the first time he remembers noticing it. Most of that night is cut in surprisingly sharp relief, considering the amount of alcohol imbibed has not found its equal since.

Enjolras was nowhere to be seen, in all likelihood too busy pretending to listen to someone while staring at a very tan Grantaire to notice that Courfeyrac was taking the plunge. “I am in love with you,” Courfeyrac had told him, very earnestly, very steadily, underscoring the confession by going on the tips of his toes and pressing a kiss to Combeferre’s forehead. He’d reached for the flask again. 

“But you’re going away,” he’d said. His voice had felt too rough. It wasn’t the right thing to say, but Courfeyrac had simply smiled, said: “so?” and rubbed a thumb over his cheek. 

“Won’t you want to see what’s out there?”

“Not at the cost of losing my chance with you,” he’d returned, immediately. 

“You’ve lost nothing,” Combeferre had told him. He’d been bold enough to take Courfeyrac’s hands inside his own and press a kiss to them, but in truth he had been scared - too scared, too confused by this sudden, truthfully unexpected confession. He needed time, then, and they had it. “I’ll give you my answer when you come back, how’s that?”

Courfeyrac had pulled the flask back and laughed. “Whenever you’re ready, darling.” 

And Combeferre had never given him an answer.) 

__

“Me too,” he says, years too late. He’s not being entirely honest. He should be. 

“Hm?”

“I’ve thought about it too,” he clarifies. Courfeyrac chuckles. 

“Naturally.” He shifts around some more, so that his lips are no longer at Combeferre’s throat. Instead, his neck is resting on Combeferre’s bicep. That arm will fall asleep soon, but for now they’re just staring at the ceiling - Feuilly will have to redo large parts of that paint job. The condensation in the room has already begun to peel away the colour. “We’ve been friends for so long. Gives rise to plenty of thoughts.” He’d never thought about it before graduation and hasn’t stopped thinking about it since, not for longer than five minutes.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says, dumbly. What else can he say? He owes Courfeyrac an answer, but he is years and years too late. What does it matter now? The argument could be made - as he said before - that honesty is the best policy. But Combeferre is less principled than the philosophes he so admires. He is human, and he is afraid that he is truly too late. Sometimes he lies awake, listening to Courfeyrac’s even breathing and feeling like the worst sort of coward. What’s stopping him, really? Courfeyrac was brave enough. Why can’t Combeferre be?

“And people keep asking,” Courfeyrac adds, sounding deep in thought. Everyone asks. Many people assume. But Courfeyrac never does. By the time his two friends returned from their gap year, he’d been so busy preparing for that horrible, awful first year exam he hadn’t even been able to pick up Enjolras and Courfeyrac from the train station. Courfeyrac had waited in front of the exam hall with flowers and a standing invitation for coffee, but Combeferre had fallen asleep on him in the metro and when he had woken up, Courfeyrac had been running a hand through his hair, grown out simply because he hadn’t had the time or energy to shave during preparation. “I like this,” Combeferre had murmured. He’d been waiting for Courfeyrac to remind him of the promise he’d made, but Courfeyrac never did. And then weeks turned into months and into years. Now it feels presumptuous, to suppose Courfeyrac had kept his heart open for him all the while. There’s been a string of attachments since, after all; most recently the objectively lovely Louise was captivated by Courfeyrac for a time. 

“Are you happy?” Combeferre asks. 

Courfeyrac sighs, but it doesn’t sound upset. “Yeah, Combeferre. I’m happy.” His hand comes down heavily on Combeferre’s chest, patting twice. 

“Do you know that you’re the most important person in my life?”

“Yeah,” he says with a smile on his face. “Can we sleep now?”

**Monday, 07:29AM**

Combeferre startles awake when a human icicle pats his cheek. “Make some room,” Enjolras hisses. He is a pale beanpole, clad in boxer shorts and socks, jumping from foot to foot and shivering. 

“What’s this?”

“I came to hang up my laundry.” Enjolras gestures to the lines and lines of mismatched socks. “Someone beat me to it.”

“You left the machine to run overnight. Courfeyrac said it would be stinky by the time you came to get it.”

Enjolras doesn’t want to hear that. “It got so cold all of a sudden,” he says. His teeth actually chatter. 

“When’s the last time you got your hemoglobin levels checked out, you stupid anemic?”

“I am not anemic,” Enjolras hisses as he scurries beneath the blankets. “I’m just _ cold _ .”

“Yeah, Combeferre,” yawns Courfeyrac. “Look at us, we’re both the very picture of health.”

“Well,” says Combeferre, beginning the long process of extracting himself from the growing pile of friends. “I need to get going. You two have fun. Maybe eat some beans. For iron.”

“I’m taking you out for lunch,” Enjolras calls after him. “Then we can both get something with beans.” Combeferre watches as Enjolras latches onto Courfeyrac’s middle like a warmth-seeking leech. Courfeyrac shrieks only a little, resigning himself to his fate quickly but not without a token protest. “When’s the last time you showered, Enj? Christ, shove over unless you want my foot in your ass.”

“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

+

**Monday, 09:34AM**

“That’s it,” decides Joly, pushing away from his spot at the table and glaring at Combeferre. “This is bullshit, I’m getting us coffee.”

Combeferre can only grunt. The letters on the page in front of him are mocking him, dancing around happily and wholly refusing to enter his brain. It’s his own fault - he’s been neglecting his sleep, more so since he has begun to regularly spend hours staring at Courfeyrac. 

“Doppio for you, I think,” Joly says after eyeing him critically for a few seconds longer. He stands and quickly begins to frown. “Oof. What a stellar bit of orthostatic dysregulation.”

“I will not hear a word of physiology,” Combeferre scowls at him. He’s very tempted to lob a wad of paper at Joly. If he didn’t think it would earn him nasty looks from the librarian he would. As it is, they’re on thin ice, since they keep bringing coffee inside. Joly is always smart enough to leave one for her at the front desk, and so they’ve been silently indulged for years, but she won’t stand for such wanton abuses of paper. “What’s passed is past. That goes for classes above everything else.”

Joly sticks his tongue out at him. 

True to his word, he does return with a cup of coffee for Combeferre, but he only has tea for himself. In the time of his absence, Combeferre has achieved nothing but to stare at his page some more. He’s not usually like this. “Hey, did you hear back from your Africa thing yet?”

How can he lie to Joly? Joly just brought him coffee. “I  _ heard back  _ weeks ago.”

“Weeks ago? But your application-” Joly pauses, frowning. “Oh, you tricky, tricky menace of a man. Congratulations!”

“They didn’t want me to  _ apply  _ per se,” he admits. Saying it out loud removes a great deal of the pressure from the lidded pot metaphor his mind has become. It is apt in many ways, for these past few weeks, Combeferre has often felt as though his mind was slowly being cooked apart.  _ Sous vide  _ style. “They offered me the position when they read my thesis and told me to send in my official documents.”

“Of course they did,” Joly beams, nearly hurtling over the table to shake his hand with unbridled enthusiasm. “Have you told Courfeyrac?”

Silence speaks for itself, often. Joly’s face falls. “I thought he’d be the first to know, honestly.”

“You thought wrong. Care to tell me about Morbus Horton?”

“I’ll give you Morbus Kobold if you don’t stop avoiding the subject,” Joly says belligerently. “Why didn’t you tell Courfeyrac?”

“Because I haven’t accepted the position yet.” He takes a deep breath. “And I don’t think I will.”

“Combeferre,” Joly says, very seriously. He adjusts his glasses. “I want you to take my advice seriously: don’t be an idiot.”

“Ouch,” he says, drily. 

“This is everything you want.”

“It’s not even close to everything I want.”

“Don’t I know that feeling,” Joly chuckles. “Your mysterious situation with Courfeyrac notwithstanding - you’ve always been of the opinion that you shouldn’t sacrifice opportunities for relationships.”

“We change as we grow.”

Joly pulls a face that is perhaps most aptly described as annoyed. They both eye the wad of paper. Joly lunges for it and before Combeferre can stop it, it lands in his face. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m the idiot. One of us needs to keep up the medical prestige.”

“You’re not an idiot, Joly,” says Combeferre, patiently. 

“Oh, no, I am. You wouldn’t believe how much, in fact.”

“Try me.”

“I’m in love with Bossuet.”

Combeferre raises a very pointed brow, as if to say: _ if you’re a bird I’m a bird, Joly.  _ He’s sure Joly gets it.

“I’m also in love with Bossuet’s girlfriend.”

“How inconvenient.”

“Tell me about it,” Joly scoffs. “We share a bathroom now. We haven’t shared a bathroom long-term before, only for holidays and such. I am a man of regret. I’ve been burying myself in coursework and doing my best to avoid the house when Muse comes over, but they insist on hanging out with me.”

“ _ Very  _ disrespectful.”

“Oh, yes, laugh at me,” Joly crosses his arms. “At least you know Courfeyrac loves you.”

He loses control of his expression then, and Joly pounces on it. “What, are we acting like you don’t know?”

“You’re not getting the story, Joly.”

“But there  _ is  _ a story,” Joly says triumphantly, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Would you say my strategic divulgence of my own romantic mishaps was a good move, psychologically speaking?”

“Stellar. Professor Tholomyes would praise you for finding common ground with your patient. I was thoroughly impressed by the empathy I felt.” Joly does not expect the wad of paper, however. Vindication. 

“...and if you had to tell me, which of the four sides were we using to communicate?”

“All of them?”

“God, I miss psychology,” Joly sighs. “I miss being able to scam my way through medical school.” He leafs through his notes, appearing a little lost. “Morbus Horton, you say? Can I interest you in a talk on _Horton Hears a Who!_ Instead?”

**Tuesday, 4:35PM**

Grantaire seems to be in the process of experimenting with some novel foodstuff in the kitchen when Combeferre comes through the door. It smells edible, but he knows that can be misleading. For all he knows they might be making paint and the whole thing is a lie of essential oils and watercolours. Prouvaire’s presence on the kitchen island lends credit to that hypothesis, but it still needs further investigation. 

“Are you hungry?”

Possibly food, then. Combeferre nods. 

“Well, sadly this is tie dye,” says Grantaire when he notices Combeferre’s wandering eyes. “I’m procrastinating, and our resident genius thought we might strip my couch and elevate it to the status of high art.” If it fails, he supposes they have more than enough couches in the house. 

“Godspeed. I suppose you want me to cook?”

Next to the sink where the experiment is being conducted are several piles of dirty dishes. They shouldn’t be there - Bahorel and Joly combined powers to purchase a dishwasher, but it has never been emptied, as far as Combeferre can tell. 

Grantaire grins widely. One of his teeth is chipped. Combeferre doesn’t remember that being the case, but he doesn’t keep track of Grantaire’s every cell. It might be recent - they go boxing regularly enough to chip a tooth or two along the way. “Not today. Feuilly made pierogi.”

His stomach begins to growl. It’s rather loud. 

“He’s finding his way back into my graces as well,” Grantaire agrees. “It’s the only just atonement for the erotic hellscape they’ve turned the second floor into.”

Combeferre finds himself reluctantly amused. 

“How do you think Enjolras is holding up?” Grantaire asks, innocuously. Prouvaire unleashes a great, pointed sigh. 

“Don’t think he hears them,” Combeferre says, holding a polite hand over his mouth while he chews. “He has a whole bag of ear plugs. Don’t tell him I told you, but they’re plastic and single use.”

“Well, well,” says Grantaire, raising his brows. 

**Wednesday, 01:12PM**

During the course of Courfeyrac’s many law firm internships, Combeferre has seen his fair share of ostentatious office buildings. Lamarque & Lafayette - and many more junior partners - shines by its relative simplicity. The lobby is a tasteful blend of cold, clean lines and decorative palm-related greenery. Prouvaire would know their names, but Combeferre already knows he won’t remember to ask them. Perhaps one of these days he’ll simply have to invite Prouvaire along to these lunches, but Combeferre hoards these moments with Courfeyrac and guards them closely at his own chest.

“Mister Combeferre,” Lamarque greets him, looking to be on his way out. “Are you waiting for Félix?”

“I am, Sir,” Combeferre says. What other reason might he have to malinger in the grand lobby? Ordinarily he would head straight up to Courfeyrac’s desk, but the receptionist is new and won’t take his word for it until she sees him with someone from the firm. Just as well that Lamarque has stopped to chat with him - her eyes have gone wide and for the past few seconds she has been intently hacking away at her keyboard. The sound of her acrylic nails cuts clear across the lobby. 

“That’s good,” Lamarque nods, seemingly speaking more to himself than anyone else. He then looks up. Combeferre feels a very poignantly parental hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad he has you, Mister Combeferre. He needs temperance.”

“As do we all,” Combeferre elects to say, in the hopes of sounding wise rather than sighing and bemoaning the fact that nothing will temper the force of nature that is Félix A. Courfeyrac. 

“I’m sure his father would be glad to hear it as well.”

“I assure you I am already well-acquainted with Mister Courfeyrac.” He remembers the tight look about Mister Courfeyrac’s face whenever Combeferre trailed into the house after his friend. There’d always been a call from the principal that welcomed them, but as a man overly concerned with reputation, he had never taken his son to task for his missteps in the presence of others. Even at twelve Courfeyrac had already gained a talent for intrigue along with his political consciousness - a talent which gave rise to his most rebellious years and only improved when he left the ancestral seat behind. As of yet he has scarcely been tempered - the proof is in his colourful face when he comes jogging down the stairs. “I thought you would come up,” he tells Combeferre, giving him a one-armed hug and a wet press of lips to his cheek. 

“Ready to go?”

“Of course, of course,” he says, effusively. They wave their goodbyes to a thoughtful looking Lamarque. “How did the meeting with your professor go?”

He waits too long to answer. Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows when he finally tells him that it went well. “I’m still not sure about it.”

“Is there anything that might make you sure?”

“You know I always need time to think things through,” Combeferre says, taking a seat in the unsurprisingly high-end restaurant Courfeyrac has picked out today, where a single starter costs more than Combeferre’s weekly food budget. Lunch is included in Courfeyrac’s internship bonus, however, and so Combeferre has gotten a very thorough glimpse into fine dining recently. “I’ve been meaning to call my grandmothers about it.”

“Thinking things through is not a bad thing,” Courfeyrac concedes, though somewhat harshly Combeferre thinks that more often than not, Courfeyrac either does not think through his impulses or does not care about the possible consequences. “When you have time.” He frowns at the menu. “Sometimes you don’t have time.” That might be an allusion to graduation. It might just as well be an outward manifestation of Courfeyrac’s dissatisfaction with the drinks menu. He finally looks back up at Combeferre. “Can you believe they don’t have margaritas? All of these cocktails sound like they’re for middle-aged men too depressed to still care about their taste buds.”

“A tantalizing glimpse into your corporate future,” Combeferre responds, offering a smile. It’s good of Courfeyrac, to recognize that the Algeria thing is a source of conflict, and to give him an out. He could bring it up, if he wanted to, but Courfeyrac won’t force the conversation. He won’t force any conversation, not even one he is owed, by all rights. There is an underlying understanding of support, whatever Combeferre might choose, and it is that kind of support he has dreamed of receiving ever since he was old enough to understand relationships of a romantic nature. That he has realized much too late that his ideal partner is also his best friend is only his own fault. Courfeyrac gave him every chance, after all. 

“So what you’re saying is my future law-firm needs a margarita bar?” 

But why is he beating himself up? He has almost everything he wants. This - these lunches with Courfeyrac, the bed they share, everything they share. It’s not the  _ real  _ thing, of course. For that, they would need to talk about it. It is, however, a satisfying enough wall to hide behind and avoid possible rejection, illogical as that course may be. Courfeyrac sees him off at the bus stop with a reminder to wash their sheets. It is that simple reminder which makes him think that, come what may, he will always have this. Isn’t that enough?

  
  


**Thursday, 12:09PM**

Enjolras clearly did not pack his own lunch. For one, he would not have bothered with the tasteful wrapping. He would have tossed the sandwiches in a resealable plastic bag (the very same he has been washing and reusing for years now, subject to much disgust at the house) and chosen to eat them in bits when they inevitably fell apart. These ones have little sticks shoved through them and they’re stacked so tightly that there is no room in the metal box for them to rattle around. For another thing, when Combeferre inspects one, they look like they might actually have nutritional value. Enjolras tends to slap a bit of lettuce and vegan cheese onto dry slices of bread and call it a day. 

He’s also aware of Combeferre’s curiosity. “Grantaire made lunch,” he says before Combeferre asks, shrugging. “There’s a bean salad as well.”

“For the iron,” Combeferre nods, sagely. 

“I’m  _ not  _ anemic.”

“Show me your bloodwork.” Combeferre challenges. “Joly is working in his lab right this second. He’d do it in a heartbeat.” Enjolras huffs. He bites into his sandwich with a certain air of dissatisfaction. “Do you know that he seems to be labouring under the impression that you are still mooning over Feuilly?”

“In this hypothetical scenario I would have a lot of reason to feel sorry for myself,” says Enjolras, surprisingly open and self-reflected. “They’re very loud. Eighteen year old me would weep for hours.” He takes another bite, chewing slowly. “But I cleared that up with Grantaire.”

“Do you intend to clear up other things with Grantaire?”

“Like what?” Enjolras has gone red in the face. It’s a very weak attempt at buying time. He seems to realize it for himself, but he’s not folding just yet. “You’re one to talk.”

“Oh?”

“Are you and Courfeyrac ever going to  _ clear things up _ ?”

“I’m not sure there is anything to clear up now.” It’s another thing that Combeferre has been wondering - if Courfeyrac told Enjolras about graduation, during those long months in which they had no company but their own. Combeferre had not told a soul, but he would not begrudge Courfeyrac the need to vent. 

“If you say so,” says Enjolras. He sounds doubtful, and with good reason. The only thing to clear up is that Combeferre has played himself, in the long run. But it’s okay, like he said. He has Courfeyrac’s friendship. That’s worth everything. “I’ve spent my whole life making assumptions about Grantaire.” It seems Enjolras is not done being self-reflective. “Of course I always found him fascinating, but I saw so little of him after I  _ left  _ boarding school that I have only a very faint idea of what he is actually like. I’m working on finding out more before- well, before the Feuilly situation repeats itself.”

“Reasonable.”

“That is what Courfeyrac said you’d say.”

Of course it is. 

**Thursday, 02:01PM**

“Come in!” 

This office is like a fever dream. Every time he sits down across from Professor Fauchelevent, he is blown away by the sheer dramatic effect of having a whole wall of books on the same subject behind oneself. The professor is still hidden behind an additional stack next to his desk, but he appears momentarily to smile kindly and welcome him as heartily as he always does, no matter that Combeferre must have been a great source of frustration for him these past weeks. “Made up your mind, then, have you?”

He nods, pushing the folder of his documents across the desk. “I just need your reference.”

“Oh, Henri,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “You never needed my reference, but I’ll gladly write you one.”

**Friday, 8:43PM**

The single most abhorrent thing about Courfeyrac - because Combeferre is not besotted enough not to recognize that his old friend does have flaws other than his overblown love of getting arrested - is his utter disrespect for the written word. Combeferre has maintained a strict divide between their books even as he has allowed everything else in their lives to merge into one big indiscriminate heap. Of course, when Combeferre does allow himself to be persuaded to lend him one of his books, Courfeyrac returns it in pristine condition. For all his talk of abolishing private property, he does respect Combeferre’s love of perfect pages. Combeferre is the rare sort of reader who puts his notes down outside the book, on little cards which he then files. That way they are all in one place and he can easily refer to them. 

Courfeyrac’s books, however, tell a very different story. Combeferre is skimming  _ Socialism: Utopian and Scientific _ , finding it dog-eared in two dozen places, marked by water in others - little droplets that suggest Courfeyrac read it in the rain, perhaps while waiting for the bus - and full of nearly illegible scribbles. “Books were meant to be read,” Courfeyrac had shrugged and broken Combeferre’s heart for the first time when he had seen his copy of  _ La Chanson de Roland _ in middle school. 

He says that he is skimming it, because in truth he is only pretending to be busy while Courfeyrac is getting dressed. “Interesting choice,” he says, looking at the book in Combeferre’s hand when he turns around to search for a belt. 

“I could say the same,” responds Combeferre, looking at the print of the open shirt Courfeyrac has pulled over his shoulders. Courfeyrac winks at him and turns back to his mirror. “How close are you to becoming radicalized? I could take you to a fantastic theory group.” 

“When would I find the time?” 

“Maybe you’d have time if you didn’t wait in line each morning to get expensive coffee and avocado toast.” 

“Maybe I’d have time if I had invested in diamond mining,” Combeferre adds, remembering the particularly galling headline Bossuet had read at the breakfast table this morning. “We’ll never know.” 

“Are there diamond mines in Algeria?” 

“If there are, I doubt they count as an ethical source.” Combeferre puts the book down. The state may be the only thing left in the world standing between a classless society, but they’ve fought too often about its abolition for him to want to get into it again just now, and that’s where this conversation is heading if he does not put a stop to it. Freedom can come by other means, it may be achieved in increments, even. On good days Courfeyrac recognizes that - then he gets another terrible case on his desk and takes another step to the left.

“My dear, there is no ethical consumption under capitalism.”

“Speaking of Algeria,” Combeferre says, after taking a deep breath. “I haven’t been entirely truthful with you, Courfeyrac.” 

“Do you already have an investment in the diamond trade? For shame!” 

“They accepted me for the research position.” Which is not quite the truth either, but it serves well enough for the moment. Like freedom, truth may come in increments. 

A small, residual selfish part of him twitches alive to grieve Courfeyrac’s obvious delight. His hands rub up and down Combeferre’s arms, stopping at his cheeks. “That’s wonderful, Ferre! I’m so happy for you! Do they have a date set for when you need to leave?” 

“Yeah. Sometime in October.” He stands, inadvertently shaking himself free of Courfeyrac’s hands. Courfeyrac goes to look for a misplaced earring. “Listen, Courfeyrac - I need to tell you something.” 

“I  _ always _ listen,” Courfeyrac insists, closing his mouth when Combeferre steps closer. There is no apprehension on his face. Not even any confusion. 

“I was hoping you would ask me not to accept it.” 

He admits on an exhale. Has to look away, soon thereafter, for now Courfeyrac does look confused. 

“Why would I do that? This is everything you want!”

“Because it would have been proof that you... that you cared about me. Because I would have stayed if you asked me.” 

Courfeyrac’s brow furrows. “You still need proof of that?”

“No-” Combeferre sighs. “No, Courfeyrac, I know. But I still hoped you might ask me to stay.”

“Rather selfish of me, wouldn’t you say?” He comes closer again, putting a hand to Combeferre’s cheek. He’s warm, he’s always warm - as bright as the sun. Their foreheads connect, briefly, then there’s that wonderful smile again. “What kind of friend would that make me?” 

“And I hoped you’d ask, because I don’t want to leave without ever having spoken about what happened at graduation, and it would have spared me having to bring the matter up apropos of nothing.” 

Courfeyrac doesn’t freeze - not exactly - but he does keep himself very still. With his current dishevelment the whole image is one of vulnerability. “We don’t have to talk about graduation, Ferre.” 

“I never gave you an answer,” he whispers. He can feel goosebumps break out over Courfeyrac’s arms. 

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready, eh?” Courfeyrac chuckles weakly. “Take your time, you have it.” 

“I am ready,” he says. “I’ve been ready for years. That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.” 

Courfeyrac is silent, but he is no longer still. His hands caress Combeferre’s shoulder; his neck, his cheek - everywhere he can decently reach. It is like a dam of affection has burst, and Combeferre doesn’t understand it. “Aren’t you upset?” 

“I can’t imagine why I would be.” 

“You told me you were in love with me and I ignored it for years.” 

“Ignored it,” Courfeyrac snorts. “That’s hilarious. You think you’re so good at keeping your feelings to yourself, don’t you?” He clears his throat, affecting Combeferre’s deeper voice: “Oh, Courfeyrac, do you know you’re the most important person in my life? I mean, yeah, we had our socks on, but  _ come on _ .”

“But we’ve missed so much because I - because I never talked to you about it.”

“If we’re being technical, dear, you still haven’t given me an explicit, verbal answer.” 

“And still you know.” 

“Yes, it’s called finding contextual clues.” He puts a hand over where Combeferre showed him he can feel his heartbeat most strongly. The tip of his heart nearly jumps out near the axillary line, fifth intercostal space. “We haven’t missed anything except perhaps some penetrative action.” 

Courfeyrac isn’t wrong. Still- 

“Shh,” he says, when Combeferre is just about ready to continue drowning in his woes. His fingers smooth out Combeferre’s brow. “I can hold it down for you no problem while you’re in Algeria. It’ll only be a year, and I can come visit and we can break every sodomy law you can think of.” 

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says after a while, once he has had his fill of feeling Courfeyrac’s hair under his chin. “I’m very out of practice.”

“You should probably find someone to practice with, then,” murmurs Courfeyrac. “I hear Feuilly has been getting very good.”

“You know what I meant.”

“The contextual clues are there,” Courfeyrac concedes, closing the distance between them. 

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory [Tumblr.](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com) plug.  
> leave a comment if you enjoyed it, or if you didn't.


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